Huston, James W. -2003- Secret Justice (com v4.0)(html) (41 page)

Jacobs wanted to help Rathman, but he couldn’t say torture was
within
the direction of the Agency. “That’s correct.”

“No further questions.”

Skyles stood and looked down at the floor for a long quiet moment. “Mr. Jacobs, do you deny that the CIA has been involved in torture in the past?”

“I have no personal knowledge of anything like that.”

“Are you not aware of the CIA handbook of 1983?”

Jacobs wasn’t biting. “What handbook is that?”

Skyles pulled a copy of it out of his briefcase. He crossed to Jacobs, asking the judge as he did, “May I approach?”

The judge nodded.

“This handbook. Dated 1983, and titled,” he read the front page, “
The Human Resource Exploitation Training Manual 1983
.” He handed it to Jacobs. “It not only discusses torture but describes
methods
. Right?”

“That manual was banned by Director Perry in 1996.”

“So there aren’t
any
copies
anywhere
in Langley.” Pause. “Right?”

Jacobs almost smiled. “I wouldn’t think so.”

“But you don’t know, do you?”

“Not really. I don’t know. I’ve never seen it.”

“You would have this jury believe that the CIA is pure and pristine and does not torture people even if the greater good of the United States is at stake?”

“That is certainly my policy. I can’t speak to what happened before I got there or what happens in other directorates that I don’t see.”

“Isn’t it true, sir, that the CIA requires its operatives to do what it takes to get the job done, but tells them if something goes wrong that they’re on their own? And their superiors will deny all knowledge?”

Jacobs bristled. “No. I don’t operate that way.”

Skyles was surprised. “Have you ever said anything like that to Mr. Rathman?”

He hesitated slightly. “Not that I recall.”

“Do you deny saying to him that if things went wrong in Sudan that he was on his own?”

“I don’t remember that.”

“The United States Government wants results from its operatives, doesn’t it?”

“Of course.”

“And you encourage them to do what it takes to get the job done.”

“Within limitations.”

“And if things get political, or don’t go perfectly, you back away from them and let them fall on their own, don’t you?”

“I don’t think that’s fair.”

“That’s what you’ve done to Lieutenant Rathman, isn’t it?”

“No. It isn’t.”

“No further questions.”

Commander Glenn Pugh read the message he had been handed, one of the strangest he had ever received. As the commanding officer of the
Louisiana
(SSBN 743), the latest
Ohio
-class ballistic missile submarine, he received numerous messages every day. Many, like this one, contained orders that dealt with the submarine’s mission; but never with instructions like this.

The
Louisiana
was designed to hide in the deepest parts of the ocean and launch intercontinental nuclear ballistic missiles at whatever enemy the United States decided to obliterate. He was
never
sent on a mission to find things, or track other ships, or do anything other than hide. But here was a message ordering him to ignore the operational orders he had received just the day before. Now he was to get under way
immediately
from his home base in King’s Bay, Georgia, regardless of the state of his stores, his crew, or anything else. His estimate for getting under way in any orderly fashion was a minimum of twelve hours. Twenty-five percent of his crew was ashore. He didn’t have time to recall them. The message was unequivocal, though—get underway
immediately
. He was to head south at maximum possible speed to intercept a course from Monrovia, Liberia, to Jacksonville, Florida, then head outbound toward Africa looking for a container ship called the
Monrovian Prince
. He was to find it and intercept it before it reached Florida.

His intelligence officer had received photographs, descriptions, and electronic signature information of the radars and radios of the ship by classified e-mail. Unfortunately they didn’t have an acoustic signature, at least one the Office of Naval Intelligence had confidence in. Pugh thought they had all they needed to find a single container ship. But once they found it, then what? The message was curiously silent. Since secrecy was clearly not critical, he could communicate with Washington when he did find the ship. He had no doubt that he would find it. If it was on the described course, he would find it. He could simply wait off the coast of Jacksonville, perhaps sixty miles, and wait for the ship to come to him. If he was then to sink it, or stop it, or board, whatever he was called upon to do, he would be there and that ship would have no idea he was anywhere nearby, even if it was equipped with the world’s most sophisticated sonar equipment, which it undoubtedly was not.

Pugh turned to his Officer of the Deck. “Pass the word to get under way.”

The OOD looked to see if his commanding officer was joking. He wasn’t. “Under way, sir?”

“Under way.”

“Sir, pretty much all the crew from the starboard watch are ashore.”

“Under way.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Hotary’s men continued to work furiously on the
Sea Dragon
, changing the paint, the appearance, and the electronics. They scrambled all over the ship replacing each piece of electronics gear that transmitted anything off the ship, anything that could be identified as unique to the
Monrovian Prince
. Each replacement brought them closer to their new identity, the
Sea Dragon
.

The telephone on the bridge rang. It was engineering. Hotary picked up the receiver. “What is it?”

“The engine is overheating. I don’t know if it can handle this speed much longer.”

“It will. We must stay at maximum speed.”

“We might break down.”

Hotary examined the shaft RPM and the speed. He checked their position based on the GPS receiver and quickly recalculated their time to the rendezvous. They had no time to spare even at maximum speed. “We have no choice.”

Wolff stood up in the courtroom. “Your Honor, United States calls Richard Velasca.”

Skyles turned to Rat and whispered, “Who is this?”

“I told you. Navy SEAL. He’s in Dev Group.”

Velasca was dressed just like Rat in his whites. He was handsome and tan. His black hair was combed back and gave him a cosmopolitan look. He was generally a carefree person, but he immediately sensed the seriousness of the courtroom. He walked to the front of the room, was sworn in, and took the witness chair.

Wolff asked him his name, his current position in the Navy, and a little bit about his background. He then asked, “Do you know the defendant, Lieutenant Kent Rathman?”

“Yes, I do.”

“How do you know him?”

“He was in Dev—my current Navy unit with me until he moved over to the—can I say it?”

“Yes,” the judge said, anticipating his concern.

“He was assigned TAD to the CIA. To their SAS group.”

“But before that you served on the same counterterrorism team in the Navy?”

“Yes.”

“When was the last time you saw Mr. Rathman?”

“A few weeks ago.”

“Where were you?”

“At the Little Creek O’ Club.”

Rat leaned back slightly. “Uh oh,” he said to no one in particular. He knew where this was going.

“Did you have a chance to talk to Mr. Rathman on that evening?”

“Sure. There were several of us from Dev Group and a few other SEALs. We were having a few beers.”

Wolff leaned on the lectern with his hands on the side. “Did the subject of the raid in Sudan come up?”

“Yes.”

“Did Mr. Rathman talk about it at all?”

“Sure. The fact that Duar had been captured was all over the base. It was all over the SEAL community. It was huge. A real coup. Rat—Lieutenant Rathman—is something of a legend in the SEAL community. We wanted to know all about the raid, and he was in town. Frankly, the rest of us still in Dev Group were a little jealous that we weren’t in on it.”

“What did he say?”

Velasca shrugged. “Basically that several Special Ops teams were airborne that night. They got the call—they were the closest—jumped out of the C-17 with Land Cruisers . . .” he paused as he considered how much to say, “. . . then drove to the rendezvous spot and walked in like they owned the damned place. Sorry. It took the enemy just long enough to figure out who they were that they were able to position themselves for the ensuing firefight. Thankfully only one American was killed; most of Duar’s men were killed and he was captured.”

“Did he mention how he located Duar?”

Velasca nodded. “He said they got one of Duar’s men, I forget his name, but Duar had somehow eluded them, or escaped.” Velasca hesitated and glanced quickly at Rat, suddenly feeling the heat of his testimony. He saw Rat staring at him.

“Did he say what he did to this man?”

“He said he had to encourage him to tell them where Duar was. He
knew
Duar was there; the signal for the attack was not to be given unless Duar was present. And the guy who had given the signal was
right there
, he was still alive and standing there. And he said Duar had been right there, right in that room. He didn’t know where he had gone.”

“What did he do?”

“He said that he had to give the man a long drink of water.”

“And then?”

“So someone in the group—there were probably eight of us—said, ‘You boarded him?’ and Rat nodded and smiled.”

A gasp went up from two of the jurors. Rat looked down at the table.

Rat whispered to Skyles, “Isn’t this hearsay or something?”

“Yeah. But it’s admissible as hell.”

Wolff asked, “What did you take that to mean?”

“That he gave the guy the water board.”

“Mr. Rathman,” he said, turning to look at Rat, “the defendant, said
that
was what he had done to the man in Sudan?”

“He didn’t say that exactly, but that was how I took it.”

Wolff looked at Skyles. “Your witness.”

David Stern had spent hours in the brig aboard the
Belleau Wood
evaluating Duar as a witness, deciding whether to call him. Commander Little said he was a horrible witness and shouldn’t be called. That the confession was fatal, and he signed it and admitted he was Wahamed Duar. To call him as a witness would just make it worse. But Stern disagreed. He was sure the Navy had the wrong man, and he wanted their client, whatever his name was, to testify. Duar had listened and agreed with Stern. He would testify.

“Mr. Stern, since the prosecution has rested and we have dealt with your motions, do you have any witnesses?”

“Yes, Your Honor. We would like to call the defendant.”

The members of the court were surprised, as was Elizabeth Watson. She had rarely seen a defendant called in a criminal trial. It was extraordinary.

The defendant made his way slowly to the witness chair, was sworn in, and sat down. When asked to state his full name, as the translator gave him the question, he responded, “Mohammed el-Mahdi.”

The judge looked at him skeptically, anticipating various games to dodge his guilt.

Stern began, “You said your name is Mohammed el-Mahdi. Yet during this trial you have been repeatedly identified as Wahamed Duar. Which is it?”

“My name is Mohammed el-Mahdi.”

“Where are you from?”

“Khartoum, Sudan.”

“What is your profession?”

“I drive a taxicab.”

“Do you know Wahamed Duar?”

“Yes. We grew up together.”

“When was the last time you saw Wahamed Duar?”

“The night I was captured.”

“Are you a member of Duar’s terrorist organization?”

“He is not a terrorist. And those that work with him are not members of a terrorist organization. They are revolutionaries.”

“Why do you think that Duar had you around?”

“Because I look like him. I think he always hoped that if something happened, they might mistake me for him.”

Stern looked at the members of the court. They weren’t buying it yet, but they were listening. “That could be risky for you. There are many people who want Wahamed Duar dead.”

“Yes, some risk. But I would do anything for him. He is a great man,” he said with intensity.

“Did he let you in on any of his planning or inside meetings?”

“No. Never. He never told me anything.”

“Did he ever tell you what to do if you were captured in his place?”

“Yes. He told me to say anything I wanted. He knew I didn’t know anything significant. No one would gain any information about him through me.”

“Did he have you dress like him?”

“Yes. I knew that. We didn’t really talk about it in the open, but it was obvious. We looked very much alike.”

“Except for the eyes.”

“Yes. He has very light brown eyes.”

“Was Wahamed Duar there the night you were captured?”

“Yes. He was there. He was hiding.”

“So the American forces simply missed him. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

Stern nodded. “One last thing. This confession that has been admitted into evidence. Did you write that?”

“Yes.”

“Where were you?”

“In Egypt.”

“Wasn’t it after you had been captured by the American forces?”

“Yes.”

“How did you get to Egypt?”

“The Americans came and got me off this ship and flew me to Egypt.”

“Then you wrote that confession?”

“Yes.”

“Is it true? Is what you said in that document accurate?”

“No. None of it.”

“Then why did you write it?”

“I had been beaten and had a towel put around my head. They poured water into the towel until I couldn’t breathe. I was suffocating. Then I was electrocuted in my ears,” he said touching his earlobes, “and then my balls. They tortured me. Almost to death.”

“Do you remember that American officer who was here? Who testified?”