Sword Of God (20 page)

Jones asked, “Did you call for evac when I was shot?”

“Are you crazy? I was running down the street, chasing a gunman. When could I call?”

“What about Kia?”

“What about her? She was taking care of
you.
Did she use your phone?”

Jones shook his head. She was busy, too. “Well,
someone
called.”

Payne nodded, confused. “Yeah, but the question is who.”

Twenty minutes passed before Crawford returned. When he did, he said nothing until he punched a series of buttons on his desk phone. Its speaker crackled to life.

He muttered, “Washington is on the line. Hang up when you’re done.”

Then he turned and left the room. No explanation. No name or hint of what was to follow. Payne couldn’t tell if Crawford was angry, embarrassed, or pleased with himself, because the bastard had no facial expressions. Like the ultimate poker player. Or someone with Botox.

Payne pulled the speaker closer. “This is Jonathon Payne. Who am I speaking to?”

There was a lengthy delay before a gruff voice filled the line. “Randy Raskin. Pentagon.”

Jones started laughing, happy to hear from his friend. “Damn, Randy, you scared the hell out of us. We thought you were someone important.”

“Thanks, man. I appreciate it. I love you, too.”

Payne said, “You know what he means.”

“I know, I know.” The ever-present clicking of Raskin’s keyboard could be heard in the background. He was the quintessential multitasker. “I’m guessing your host is out of the room.”

“Yeah. We’re clear.”

“Thank God! That guy is an idiot. I’ve been forced to sound official for the past three hours. No matter what I did or said, he kept quoting rules and regulations. Blah, blah, blah. Even when D.J. was shot, he gave me flack about evac.”

Jones leaned forward. “I’m fine, by the way. Thanks for asking.”

“Oh, now I get it,” Raskin teased. “You don’t consider
me
important, yet you want me to care about your health? Sorry, fellas. You can’t have it both ways. .. . Besides, I already knew you were fine. I’ve been monitoring your progress all night.”

Payne frowned. “How so?”

“The amazing thing about Korea is their technology. They’re
way
ahead of us when it comes to implementation. It’s actually kind of creepy. Sorta like Big Brother.”

“Meaning?”

“Did you know Jeju has more than six thousand traffic cameras? With a touch of a button, I tapped into their mainframe and followed your movement all over the island. I’m telling you, it was great. Just like a movie! When you got attacked by ninjas? Man, that was awesome! You were like, kick, punch, shoot! And that guy was like
aaaaaaaagh!
Only I couldn’t hear him scream because there’s no sound on their cameras.”

“Are you done?”

“Not yet. If you want, I can burn you a copy on
DVD
. You know, like a home movie.”

“I’d like one,” Jones said. “Please send it to—”

But Payne cut him off. “Actually, I’d prefer if you deleted all traces of us from their system. If Korea sees that footage—”

“1 know, I know. Don’t worry. I already took care of it. I wiped out the entire feed from Seongsan. Their computers will interpret it as a power surge, but we know the truth.”

“Thanks,” Payne said. “You’re the best.”

“I know that, too.”

“So,” Jones said, “was there a reason you called? Or were you just calling to brag?”

“Damn! The guy gets shot one time, and now he’s all business.” Raskin pounded away on his keyboard until the correct file filled his screen. “You asked me to do more research on Dr. Ernie Sheldon, and I found some interesting nuggets. Is there somewhere I can send them, or will I have to go through Crawford?”

“Fill us in now,” Payne said. “You can send it through him later.”

Raskin scanned the data. “Don’t crucify me on this one, but I gave you some misleading intel the last time we talked. Turns out, Dr. Sheldon might not be dead. In fact, I’m pretty sure of it. His main file lists him as
deceased.
Yet I tracked him through some back doors and found a fairly recent posting. For the past three years he’s been working as a special projects coordinator at Fort Huachuca.”

Fort Huachuca is a major military installation in Arizona that became home to the U.S. Army Intelligence Center and School in 1971. Since then, its post has changed several times, yet in the past three decades one thing has remained constant. If a soldier wanted to be certified as an interrogator, he went to Fort Huachuca—where they taught all the necessary skills to become a 97E (pronounced 97 echo), everything from the art of interrogation to the rules of deception.

Payne and Jones were quite familiar with the installation, a place both of them endured while prepping for the MANIACs. At times their training was horrific, bordering on inhumane.

But it prepared them for what they’d face in the Special Forces. And how to handle it.

Payne said, “Define special projects.”

“Everything from the latest torture techniques to mind-control experiments. Plus I hear there’s been progress with gamma-aminobutyric acid. Combining
GABA
drugs and physical exhaustion to extract confessions.” Raskin cleared his throat, as if catching himself before he revealed too much. “Of course, that’s
probably
just hearsay. I have no specific knowledge as to what Sheldon was working on.”

“And these projects,” Payne wondered. “Are they being used in the field?”

“Honestly, Jon, I really don’t know. I sit behind a desk all day, fiddling with my keyboard. You’re the one in the real world. You tell me. Are these techniques being used?”

Payne knew the answer was yes. Torture has been around for as long as there’s been pain and wouldn’t stop anytime soon. The problem is that torture has proven to be unreliable because
all
prisoners eventually talk, although what they say is often fabricated, a way for the brain to protect the body from further abuse.

That’s why men like Dr. Sheldon conducted their research.

They’re looking for better ways to obtain information.

Recent studies have shown that some of the simplest techniques—exhaustion, sleep deprivation, prolonged exposure to heat or cold—are the most effective. Yet in recent years, the one technique that’s been in the news the most is
waterboarding.
It was even mentioned by Vice President Dick Cheney in a White House interview, who called it a “very important tool.”

Prisoners were immobilized with ropes or cords. Feet slightly inclined. Head below legs. Cellophane was wrapped around the subject’s face and water was poured over him. Almost instantly the gag reflex kicked in and the subject panicked, terrified of drowning and certain death. Rumor has it that several
CIA
officials volunteered to go through the ordeal to understand its physiological devastation. Their average endurance time was fourteen seconds.

Payne was familiar with all this information. What he didn’t know was Dr. Sheldon’s role in what was going on. Had he been called in as an expert to assess the crime scene? Or was the cave one of his experiments gone wrong? And if so, who was the intended victim?

“Bear with me,” Payne said as he changed the direction of their conversation. “Last time we spoke, I asked for the names of prisoners in black-op facilities. Unfortunately, you were unable to help. So let me approach this from a different angle. One of my sources recently gave me the name of a known terrorist who we think might be part of this. If I mentioned his name, would you be able to confirm or deny his capture?”

Raskin chose his words carefully. ‘Technically, I couldn’t confirm anyone’s capture without proper clearance. But I’d be happy to deny any rumors that I felt could hurt your mission.”

“Fine. The name we heard is Hakeem Salaam.”

Raskin said nothing for the next fifteen seconds.

‘Thank you,” Payne said, reading between the lines. “That’s a big help.”

“My pleasure. Now unless you have something else, please put the sergeant major back on the phone. I want to mess with him some before I get back to work.”

Whatever Raskin said to Crawford was effective, because from that moment on he was on his best behavior. He led Payne and Jones to a private computer terminal, where they were able to download Dr. Sheldon’s file and print several photographs they had requested.

Armed with this new information, they were escorted across the facility grounds to where the Parks were being detained. Kia was called out of the room for a quick briefing, filling them in on the past few hours, describing what was said on the boat, in the helicopter, and in the holding cell. Amazingly, just like Mr. Kim in the village, the Parks had warmed to her in a short time—incredible, considering the circumstances.

“Is the boy talking?” Payne wondered.

“Not about the cave, but he
is
talking about other things. He’s a great kid who’s been through a whole lot. I’m stunned he’s even coherent.”

“What about the dad?”

“Scared. Angry. Anxious. Emotional. Everything you’d expect from a guy who lost his family and doesn’t know why.”

“What do you recommend?”

“About what?”

“About talking to them. We need to know what they know.
ASAP
.”

“But Jon—”

“I
know,”
he said, not letting her get started with an emotional plea. This was one of those situations where he wouldn’t be dissuaded. ‘Trust me, I realize they aren’t ready to talk and won’t be ready for some time. Unfortunately, this interview can’t wait. We got some new intel that we need to act on immediately, and the only way to do that is by talking to them. So whether it’s you, me, or all three of us combined, this conversation needs to take place right now.”

Kia led the Parks into an interview room and prepared them for what was about to happen. She assured them that Payne was a decent man who would do them no harm, that he’d lost a good friend during the violence at the cave, and needed their statements to find the people responsible. When put in those terms, Chung-Ho was more than willing to help—even though he knew it would be painful for him and his son—because it was the honorable thing to do.

Payne came in next. Polite. Respectful. Empathetic. None of it an act of any kind. He’d lost his parents at an early age, killed by a drunk driver when he was in junior high, so he was all too familiar with sudden loss. His years as a soldier, surrounded by death and destruction, hadn’t dulled any of those feelings, and they never would.

They’d be a part of him forever.

“I know some of these questions are going to be difficult, probably the last thing in the world that you want to talk about, but I wouldn’t be asking them if they weren’t so important.” Payne paused, trying to ease into the interview.

“Obviously, if you’d feel more comfortable speaking in Korean, we can use Kia as an interpreter.”

Chung-Ho shook his head. “My English is good. So is my son’s. We speak good.”

“Yes, you do. Much better than I speak Korean.” He smiled, hoping to keep the conversation friendly. “To make things easier, I’d like to start with you. I figure the more you can tell me, the less I’ll have to ask your son. In the long run, I think that would be best. Don’t you?”

He nodded in appreciation, thankful for Payne’s kindness.

Meanwhile, Yong-Su sat in a chair in the back corner, staring at the floor in a semidaze. Kia sat next to him, telling him about her childhood in Korea, occasionally brushing the black hair from his eyes, like a mother might do. More worried about his well-being than the interview that was taking place ten feet away.

“If we can,” Payne said, “I’d like to talk about last Saturday.”

Chung-Ho described what he could remember. Yong-Su had stumbled home from the cave, covered in blood. After checking him for injuries, Chung-Ho went from neighbor to neighbor, asking if they had seen anything, but no one had. Soon they discovered a trail of blood leading toward the cave. Panicked, he rushed to Kim and asked him what he should do. Kim’s advice was to take his son and leave town immediately. So he did, just like that. His wife and family were supposed to follow and meet them an hour later. But the people from the cave prevented it.

“Have you been to the village since?”

“No. It is not safe.” He looked back at his son, choosing his next words carefully. “When my wife not arrive, I call Mr. Kim from pay phone. He tell me what happen to village. He tell me never come back and not call police. He handle everything.”

Kim hadn’t mentioned the phone call, but it explained why Chung-Ho had never returned to check on his wife and the rest of his family. He already knew what had happened to them.

“Did you see anyone from the cave that day?”

“No.”

“What about beforehand? Maybe a stranger walking in the woods?”

“I see nothing. We stay in village. They stay in cave. No strangers.”

“But your son,” he said delicately. “He saw some people, didn’t he?”

Chung-Ho turned and looked at his boy.

“Did he tell you what he saw?”

He took a deep breath, then nodded. “He see blood. People in cave with blood.”

“You mean dead people?”

He shook his head. “No. People still alive. They were talking.”

Payne paused, confused. Until that moment, he had assumed that Yong-Su had stumbled into the scene
after
everyone was dead, possibly overhearing the killers talk about the black stone as they left the cave. But now his father was telling him the exact opposite. Yong-Su was in there while people were still alive.

In a heartbeat, the direction of the interview had to be changed.

Payne thought back to the cave, recalling the layout of the initial chamber. A desk and a chair were bolted to the middle of the floor. A single lightbulb, equipped with a tiny camera, hung from the volcanic rock. Everything was bathed in blood—the floor, the ceiling, the walls. On the bright side, if there was one, the blood was primarily contained in that one room, the place where interrogations occurred. And since Yong-Su was covered in blood, he’d obviously been in there. Maybe during a torture session. If so, who knew what he could answer?