Marine Medium Tiltrotor Squadron 364 (VMM-364)
Marine Corps Air Station Camp Pendleton, California
“Colonel Dillon, welcome to MCAS Pendleton, sir.” The marine gunnery sergeant wearing MARPAT cammies saluted smartly. “How was your flight?”
“Fine, thank you. Is everything ready for the prisoner?”
“Yes, sir. As per Admiral Lenston’s orders, sir. The Ospreys should be here in ten mikes. The Bougainville is standing by twenty klicks offshore.”
“Thank you, Gunny. Have they arrived on base yet?”
“Yes, sir, passed through Vandergrift gate five minutes ago.”
“Excellent.”
Two MV-22Bs made their usual sudden arrival. Unlike a helicopter, an Osprey was relatively quiet when in airplane mode. It wasn’t until they rotated their nacelles upwards and went into a hover that you realized they were close to you.
As the two tilt-rotors landed, a civilian SUV came onto the tarmac, trailed by a Marine Humvee. Pulling up behind the Ospreys and their still spinning rotors, Peters got out and saluted Colonel Dillon. Habit dies hard—Peters was in civilian clothes and thus not required to salute—but almost twenty years in uniform made saluting almost automatic. “Good afternoon, sir. Is everything in place?”
“Yes, Captain. We will take it from here.”
Peters shook his head. “Sir, I have my orders directly from The Admiral. The prisoner is not to leave my sight until he is onboard the Bougainville.”
“Very well, get aboard. Admiral Lenston and the interrogation team are waiting.”
Peters gestured and Ping Pong pulled the cuffed and hooded Chinese officer out of the SUV. They were all exhausted after driving through the night. The encounter with the Mexican Coyote smugglers hadn’t made them feel much better. Peters had been shocked at how easy it had been to slip over the border just west of Mexicali.
With Park helping, they dragged the Chinese officer into the waiting aircraft and crammed him into a seat. Bustamante and Peters followed. Ping Pong did up the straps for him as Peters watched, a bemused smirk on his face. “No point in letting him bang his head on the ceiling after taking so much trouble to get him here.”
“Right.”
Dillon followed them up the ramp and gestured for the crew to get underway. Within seconds, the rear ramp was up and the Ospreys were in the air, heading out over the early morning Pacific ocean.
USS Bougainville (LHA-8)
Point Mugu Range Complex, California
As a career intelligence officer, Colonel Dillon was accustomed to keeping secrets. He was also accustomed to following orders. When the Commandant of the Marine Corps calls you personally on a Sunday, you sit up, salute, and do what you are told.
That devotion to duty didn’t stop his mind from asking questions, however. The idea that the US government had essentially abducted a People’s Liberation Army (PLA) officer in Mexico and taken him against his will to the United States didn’t sit well with him. There were rules, and one of them was that foreign military officers were either friendly, hostile or neutral. If they’re an enemy combatant, then the Geneva Convention applies. Name, rank and serial number only. The marines who guarded the prisoners held at Guantanamo Bay didn’t like their orders either, but they carried them out. Dillon was concerned that the US government was lowering the standard for how prisoners of war were treated and that wasn’t a good thing in his mind.
“Sir, if I may, how should we be considering the prisoner?”
Admiral Lenston wasn’t prepared for the question. “I’m sorry, Colonel, I don’t understand the question.”
“Sir, is this man a prisoner of war? Is he to be afforded his rights under the Geneva Convention?”
Lenston nodded, understanding the issue. “I think at this point, we should consider him a potential defector.”
“Defector? Sir, I’m pretty sure he does not want to be here.”
“Not yet.”
Peters stared at his captive. The man was very composed, considering the circumstances. Still wearing his PLA uniform with the single star of a major on his shoulder, he looked out of place, but calm. Accepting of his fate.
“Major, my apologies for your treatment but we had no time for pleasantries before.”
The major just stared straight ahead. “I am trained to resist torture. I will say nothing.”
“That’s nice; we don’t plan to torture you.”
“No?”
“No, we don’t do that.”
Now the major looked directly at Peters. “Do you think we don’t know about the water boarding?”
Peters pointed at Park, “That’s his department. We may get to that but at the moment you are talking to the US Army. We don’t do that. Here is what I can do for you. I can and I will guarantee that you are assigned political asylum. That means that you will be treated well and that the US government will protect you just like any other defector.”
The major shrugged. “But I am not a defector. I have nothing to say to you.”
It was Peters turn to shrug. “Fine with me. I’ll give the estate to the next guy.”
“The next guy?”
“Yeah, do you think that we just came all the way down to Mexico and grabbed some random dude out of the desert? Of course we have others. If you don’t take the deal, I’m sure that the next guy will,” Peters lied outrageously. Peters got up and gestured to the marine guard standing at the door. “Take this one to Guantanamo Bay with the other political prisoners.”
For the first time, the major looked uncertain. Good, he knows what Gitmo is. He looked back at Peters. “I am not a traitor.”
Peters smiled. “Of course not. I would never ask you to betray your country. Let me tell you about this estate in a place called Daytona Beach. You will love it, I guarantee it.”