Operation Jericho Page 3

  The guard announced the order again as some stragglers were slow to move from their prostrated prayer positions. His second order was followed with “please.” The detainees seemed to respond to the boisterous request a bit better than the previous order.

  Prisoners of war, even those who threw wads of feces and cups of urine at Marine guards, were treated with a certain level of respect. Every prisoner was protected under conventional standards and by the political fallout that always followed any incident involving a guard and a prisoner. The detainees, Islamo-Nazi terrorists who would claw their way through the prison’s concrete walls for just one more opportunity to kill another American civilian, were regarded as “resistance fighters” and “war heroes” by American media sources. The opposite side of the coin held contempt for men and women standing between terrorists and would-be targets. The Marine guard thought quietly to himself. This world has been turned upside-down by empathy for evil…and here I am, hoping to avoid having feces thrown at me by other grown men. Strange days.

  “Please place your hands on the wall and spread your feet,” the Marine called out to the small crowd of surrendered enemy soldiers. The jarhead was not alone in the cage of beasts. He stood across the fenced area from another uniformed Marine. Together, they paced half of the allotted space each. They observed, back and forth, while the prisoners moved. The guards gave their head counts. All the new prisoners were accounted for.

  The detained terrorists stood a little off-balance with their hands flat on the concrete wall and their feet slightly spread apart. The intent was to draw immediate attention should any prisoner feel a need to regain his footing prior to mounting an attack on the guards. This kept the guards one step ahead of men who would just as soon kill any American if provided the opportunity.

  Each of the prisoners was new to Guantanamo Bay. They were captured from around the world, having been identified as members of terrorist organizations, and brought to the cattle farm that processes murderers. They hated their whereabouts accordingly. Their newness to the environment made them unstable beyond those who had been in custody long enough to understand process. Cuban heat and humidity only made the environment that much more miserable and volatile. Prisoners and guards hated each other as much as they hated Guantanamo.

  “Turn around and face the wall!” the young Marine at the far end of the cage ordered with a pointed finger. One of the detainees turned from the bulkhead to look around. The prisoner moved like a lion turning just enough to reach and paw a child through the bars of a zoo exhibit. The Marine at the far end of the cage responded to the movement by withdrawing a large canister of pepper spray from its sheath. He was ready to douse the enemy with as much liquid fire as needed to subdue any resistance inside the confines of the outdoor cell. The terrorist saw a triggered can of impending pain, and whatever notion of resistance he held simply faded. The detainee lowered his head as he returned to face the wall.

  Both Marines waited, focused on every twitch made by every detainee inside the cage. The prisoners were so new to camp that they still wore their traditional and nontraditional garbs. The eclectic mix of combatants had not yet been uniformed in the bright orange jumpsuits known to all prisoners at Gitmo. They were entering into the Receiving and Processing areas of detention. This is where Iman and Hasim usually operated, before prisoners found their kinsmen within the confines of the internment camp. Iman and Hasim got to the prisoners before the prisoners got to their allies inside.

  “I understand the gravel will be uncomfortable, gentlemen, but please kneel down facing the wall. Please also place your hands on top of your head.” The Marine guard was still respectful and polite though he spoke through gritted teeth. “The faster you move, the faster you will be able to stand up off the rocks. Thank you.” The Marines hoped for reason to settle in, but the enemy still held onto their attitudes of resistance. They decided to move when they wanted rather than when the Marines dictated. The prisoners would eventually learn to save themselves heartache and trouble, but not that day.

  The Marines waited for each of the prisoners to finally kneel into the hard, pebble-covered floor of the cage. The prisoners placed their hands on top of their heads as commanded. Then they waited.

  Gate 1 opened first and four more Marines stepped into the fenced purgatory between cells. Gate 1 closed behind the group of Marines and Gate 2 opened for entry into the holding area. Four uniformed guards joined the two other Marines inside. The guards quickly grew in strength and number. Intimidation previously felt by the prisoners amplified as the Marine presence increased within a tightly enclosed area. General, but silent, assumptions were formulated by the captives. They figured that if two Marines could control ten men, then six Marines could wreak unabated havoc upon them. The idea of defiance wavered in the reality of fear. The captives suddenly became compliant to every order issued.

  “Do not move!” one of the Marines barked from behind the detainees. Each of the kneeling men tried not to jolt from the sudden noise. Eight of the ten captives did what they could to keep their hearts in their chests. Several terrorists mumbled prayers, not knowing that no harm was to come. Only two of the captives knelt without fear, but they were still surprised by unexpected actions.

  The four Marines having just entered the cage separated into pairs. They stood directly behind two designated prisoners. “Go,” one Marine ordered. The two-man teams leapt forward. They grabbed the designated prisoners, draped their heads with black hoods, and dragged the detainees backward through the gravel.

  Trails cut by the prisoners’ heels could be followed from the wall to the gates. Dragged backward by two men, the captured jihadists were provided little opportunity to resist. They were removed from the detention area, but their brethren decided that the deed should not go unanswered.

  The insurgent who had been backed down by the threat of pepper spray decided to act. He incited avid and loud protests by the other jihadists as he tried to stand from his kneeling position. The man’s first mistake was to disobey orders. He was to remain quiet, but failed to do so. His second mistake was to move. The Marine guards responded accordingly.

  The Marine at the far end of the cage planted the sole of his boot squarely into the middle of the resister’s back. He shoved forward, and the full weight of the man’s body was planted hard into the concrete wall. Flesh met masonry with a hard thwack.

  The sound of debilitating injury and loss of breath inspired the other prisoners to scream out and move from their positions. The Marine guards looked at each other, stepped back into defensive fighting positions, withdrew their canisters of pepper spray, and squeezed the triggers indiscriminately. The eight-man riot was dispersed to wailing and tears. The insurgents cursed with burning eyes and gagged at the overwhelming mist lingering about in the cage.

  The Marine guards exited the holding area easily. They decided it better to wait out the clouds of pepper spray and allow the enemy a chance to recover. The prisoners’ eyes, noses, and throats would burn for a few minutes, but the searing sensation would forever be burned into their memories. The Marines hoped that the hard lesson was learned, and they expected to have fewer issues with resisters from that point forward. Neither of the guards enjoyed inflicting pain on prisoners, especially given their firsthand knowledge of the sweltering agony caused by pepper spray. Each of the guards had been subjected to the overbearing chemical sting in their initial days of training, so they sympathized with the screams coming out of the pen.

  Unguarded prisoners were scarce across Guantanamo. Marines held tight control over enemy soldiers there. However, the pair of guards stepped away for a moment to grant freshly sprayed foes a period of recovery. The Marines stepped around the corner, out of view of the cage, and laughed.

  A senior guard asked, “You guys okay? I mean…that extraction was almost believable that time.” He chuckled as the two-man teams released the two detainees previously dragged from the others.

  Marines laughed qui
etly while Iman and Hasim pulled the black hoods off their heads. “Man, you guys could at least wash these things every once in a while,” Iman complained as he looked up at the Marines standing around him.

  Then Hasim cut in, “Did you really need to spray all of them? I don’t know if that was really necessary.”

  The senior guard answered, “It’s probably better for them to learn the nonlethal lesson than to have to teach them the hard way.” Iman, Hasim, and the other Marines nodded. They knew the senior was right. Each prisoner in the holding cage received a valuable lesson. Resistance equals pain and continual discomfort. Compliance equals amenities and comfort. The teachable and wise would be able to avoid future discomfort at the very least.

  “That was a heck of a kick, Lance Corporal,” Hasim commended the young Marine who took instant control of the prisoner most obviously seeking to fight his captives.

  The young Marine tipped his hat jokingly. Then he patted the other guard on the chest and asked, “You think we’re okay to go back now? It seems like the choking has died out a bit.” Both guards laughed and went back to their posts inside the cage. They were in control once again. Their force was absolutely felt among the captives.

  Iman scratched his head, answering the remnant itch left from the hood. “If I get lice from one of these nasty things, I’m going to be really mad,” he griped. The other Marines, including Hasim, laughed at Iman’s jest. “Didn’t you guys pull us out of there a bit soon?” Iman continued to question.

  Hasim elaborated, “Yeah. I didn’t get a chance to really talk to anybody in there, let alone gather any meaningful intelligence.”

  Hasim and Iman stood up and dusted themselves off. Their long white robes had become dingy from the dirt of the detention area. Their hair was long enough to hide the tops of their ears and stank from being unwashed for several days. Their beards were thick and unkempt. Neither of them had been provided the opportunity to brush their teeth or bathe over the two days they had been received along with the other prisoners.

  “Man, Iman. I love this job, but I am not a fan of wearing a bedsheet while smelling like a mule,” Hasim said, mocking the traditional Arab garb and their overall appearance. Then he looked to the most senior Marine. He was still waiting on an answer as to why they were pulled from the rest of the detainees so early.

  Previous years of experience provided Iman and Hasim ample time to infiltrate enemy captives inside Guantanamo. They were systematically placed among the population of new captives. They were treated like prisoners, acted like jihadists, and reported back to Command like spies.

  If any of the prisoners learned about the Marine intelligence mission, Iman and Hasim would have been executed inside any of the many common areas within the prison. Therefore, they became masters at blending in among the enemy.

  Iman and Hasim were second-generation Americans. Their parents fled northern Afghanistan when Russia attempted to wage war there, and they found solace in the United States of America. The refuge and safety realized in America was appreciated through wholehearted assimilation. Their father embraced the country that provided his family shelter, and he taught his children to do the same. They held onto their Muslim faith and remained in practice as a family, but did all that they could to blend into American society.

  Years later, Iman and Hasim made a patriotic decision to join the United States Marine Corps. At the time, every valuable billet for either man was full due to the heavy influx of volunteers following the infamous terror attacks in New York, Washington, and Pennsylvania. The brothers were almost turned away until the local recruiter received their entry test scores and learned that they were fluent in Arabic with a slight regional dialect. Iman and Hasim were physically fit, intelligent, and invaluably skilled in linguistics. Exceptions were made to ensure they were allowed into the Marine Corps. Concessions were made to ensure that they could serve together.

  The exceptions and concessions made for Iman and Hasim landed the men at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. Unlike every other Marine on base, the brothers did not shave or wear camouflage uniforms. They didn’t even bathe every day just to keep their cover among other prisoners. They were not able to observe Colors ceremonies or show their respect for their ranking officers, country, or Corps. Instead, they lived among the enemy with the purpose of gathering information about mounting insurgencies and attacks at home or abroad. They were tasked to spy from within, and they proved their salt time and again, defying unspoken dangers to get useful intelligence out to American troops who needed it.

  “Don’t worry about the detainees,” a weathered and wiry staff sergeant barked. “You two go scrape the scuzz off of ya.” The staff sergeant’s accent was thick with a Southern drawl. He looked Iman and Hasim over with a snarl. “Ya’ll are done looking like them. Get back into regs…haircuts, shave, uniforms, spit shines. It might behoove yuns to bathe twice. Man, ya’ll stink something awful.”

  Iman looked at Hasim, Hasim back to Iman. They were confused. The staff sergeant was following longstanding and unwritten protocols of the Marine Corps. Short, choppy pieces of orders were given in the expectation that Marines would follow blindly and without question. The big picture was rarely provided in a single setting, but Iman and Hasim felt they deserved a bit more of an answer from the staff sergeant.

  “With all due respect, Staff Sergeant,” Iman huffed. He was interrupted by the very man from whom he was seeking answers.

  “Look. All I was told was that you two need to clean up and get packed most ricky-tick. Admin has your orders out of here. That means you clean up and get back to being Marines instead of”—the staff sergeant nodded toward the invisible enemy—“being like them.” He snarled again when he mentioned the opposition. The staff sergeant, several tours deep into the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, made no effort to hide his disdain for his foes.

  Hasim and Iman were done asking questions. They were officially authorized to bathe, shower, and get back into their uniforms. They would get their answers from the Administrations Office after they cleaned up. Each was happy to do so and eager to look like Marines once again.

  Bearded men at Guantanamo Bay were either caged or in process to be caged. Iman and Hasim were neither in process nor caged. Therefore, they were escorted by a uniformed Marine. Though the notion of having an escort might have seemed excessive to an outsider looking in, anyone inside Gitmo understood the need. Without an escort, the accurately disguised Arab Americans would have been harassed and questioned by those who guard dangerous men of like appearance.

  “What’s the story on you guys?” a young private asked Iman. The Marine was new to the unit and had not previously engaged the senior men in conversation. The private was privy to the back end of Iman’s inquiry to the staff sergeant. However, he was not informed enough to piece together all the puzzles surrounding the spies.

  Iman turned to the guard and smiled. Iman and Hasim tried not to chuckle at the naivete of the youthful Marine. Their purpose was guided by and suited for ranks much higher than private. The no-name kid in camouflaged utilities knew that he did not rate an answer. He seemed to be making small talk with the civilian-looking strangers. Hasim acknowledged the gesture and gave a simple answer to soothe the man’s curiosity.

  “Don’t worry, kid. We’re actually Marines.” He patted the junior Marine on the back. He didn’t offer the private any other information. Then they carried on to their barracks rooms, under escort, nearly a mile and a half away from any detention areas.

  The orders to the private were simple. He was to follow the men around and make sure they were not harassed. Otherwise, he was to stay out of their way and wait until Iman or Hasim dismissed him from his duties.

  The disguised were of like mind. “I don’t know about you, man, but I want to bathe first,” Iman said, waving his hand in front of his face toward Hasim. They laughed in the knowledge that they smelled like sweat and dirt. Bathing became their first priority. The filthy Jarheads walked at an accel
erated pace until they reached the corner of their barracks.

  The men walked up the stairs and down a long corridor at the barracks building. Their rooms were directly next door to each other, so the private was able to follow without having to go in different directions. Iman was hospitable and offered the younger Marine a place to sit. “Go ahead and watch a movie or something. I’m going to make sure I get all this filth off of me,” Iman laughed to the other Marine.

  Living in the Corps usually involved close quarters and tight spaces. No Marine was unaccustomed to having someone around him at all times. There was very little room for personal space. Privacy was rarely considered. This was especially true of Iman and Hasim, who had been living as prisoners for months.

  Prisoners lived in large groups. They bathed, clothed, ate, slept, and generally existed in herds under the watchful eyes of military police. The only moments of solitude were those just prior to interrogation. Iman and Hasim had lived as prisoners for so long and done so well in their disguised duty that newer intelligence officers would unknowingly interrogate the Marines to no avail. Existing without privacy made Iman less modest than an average person, so he shed his filthy clothes in the middle of the barracks room. He could have waited until he was behind the bathroom door, but he was not bothered by his nakedness as much as he was bothered by the smell of the dingy garb.

  “Do me a favor, Marine.” He pointed to the pile of semi-white cloth on the floor. “Bag that and put it out for the trash.” The private nodded and complied with the request, knowing that sergeants do not make requests of junior Marines, no matter how politely an order is given. Iman then walked into the bathroom. The small room had a toilet and shower. The mirror and vanity was just outside of the door and open to the barracks room. Much like everything else in the Marines, the rooms were simplistic and provided minimal comfort.