The storm had blown in just after sunset. The rain was coming down in sheets; lightning was crashing. The thunder rolling across the bay was horrendous. With visibility down to zero for most of the mid-Caribbean, it was no weather for flying. Yet an unusual cargo plane was sitting on Gitmo runway number two, hard on the edge of the U.S. Navy base, its propellers redirecting the fierce downpour into a violent, driving spray.
Though all of the cargo plane’s insignia had been painted over, this aircraft belonged to the Iranian Air Force, an unlikely visitor to this American facility hanging by its fingernails off the eastern end of Communist Cuba. The plane, a two-engine French-built Transall-2, was here as a result of top-secret negotiations between the United States and Iran, part of a very hush-hush diplomatic arrangement. The United States kept several hundred Taliban fighters at Guantánamo Bay, illegal combatants captured during the war in Afghanistan. Many of these people were not Afghanis; in fact, terrorists from more than two dozen countries were being held in prisons here. Seven of them were citizens of Iran—highly placed citizens. In fact, all seven were related to someone on the governing board of mullahs that ran the
troublesome Persian country, a place where family trees could spread for miles.
The aim of the secret negotiations was simple. Iran was holding seven top-echelon Al Qaeda fighters, none of whom was Iranian. The seven Iranian citizens the United States was holding were foot soldiers, with friends in high places. The United States wanted the Al Qaeda lieutenants for questioning and prosecution; the mullahs wanted their relatives back. It was a prisoner exchange then. Seven-for-seven. An even swap.
The howling storm was a complication no one had foreseen, though. The two sides had argued each other right down to the last comma on the exchange document, which was so classified, it would be burned and its ashes scattered after the transfer was made. Timing was the most important element. The Al Qaeda prisoners were being held at an Iranian border crossing, ready to be pushed across into U.S.-held Iraq as soon as word of the plane’s departure from Guantánamo was confirmed. Any delay, be it weather or mechanical, would be a deal breaker, the distrust between the two sides ran so deep.
That’s why the Transall-2 had to be loaded, had to get into the air, and had to make the all-important confirmation call back to Tehran.
So, hurricane or not, it had to take off.
Things had to go right on the ground, too. The isolated section of the air base was surrounded by no fewer than a hundred Marines, backed up by at least two squads of SEALs watching the waterfront nearby. (There would later be some dispute about the number of SEALs present.) There was also a Delta Force sniper team stationed in the hills above. This small combination army had been in place for hours, sweating out the brutal heat of the waning day, only to be soaked through now by the driving rains of night.
A stretch van would be transporting the seven Iranian prisoners from Camp X-Rray, the main Gitmo holding facility,
to runway number two. The van would be escorted by two Marine LAVs, small, heavily armored tanklike vehicles. A U.S. State Department representative would also be accompanying the van, traveling in a separate car. His name was John Apple. His counterpart, a general in the Iranian Air Force, was serving as the copilot for the transfer plane.
Once the van reached the runway, Apple and the Iranian general would individually count each of the seven prisoners as they got out of the van and again as they climbed aboard the plane, this last bit of diplomatic nonsense insisted on by the Iranians. Only after both men were certain that the seven prisoners were safely aboard the plane would it be cleared for takeoff.
It was just one of many complicating factors in this anxious exchange that all seven of the Iranian detainees were named Khameni. In fact, five of them had the exact same name: Rasef Rasanjani Khameni. To avoid confusion, it was agreed early in the negotiations that the detainees would simply be known as K-1 through K-7.
The plane’s first destination would be Mexico, but only by necessity. When it touched down at Guantanamo, the Transall-2’s fuel tanks were nearly empty. It needed gas to get home. The United States had steadfastly refused to refuel the plane, though, just as the Iranians had steadfastly refused to allow U.S. fuel in its tanks. So, with a nudge from the United States, the Mexican government agreed to allow the plane to refuel, no questions asked, at a tiny military base in the Yucatan before starting its long flight westward. With another fuel stop in Fiji and a final one in Beijing, the plane was expected to arrive in Tehran 32 hours later.
A huge celebration would be waiting for it in the Iranian capital, timed to lead off the government’s national nightly news.
The seven fighters were expected to be greeted as heroes.
The prisoners’ van arrived a few minutes late, this as the rain grew more torrential and the winds picked up to 40 knots.
The van pulled up to the back of the waiting airplane, along with Apple’s car. Conversation was nearly impossible around the loading ramp, thanks to the gusting wind, whipped up further by the gyrating turboprops. The Iranian general was waiting impatiently at the bottom of this ramp. He, too, was soaked. He’d been nervously watching the line of Marines standing close by. Both sides wanted to get this over with quickly.
Apple and the Iranian general met at the ramp, but there were no handshakes. They simply stood side by side, ready to count aloud as each detainee stepped off the small bus. Per the agreement, each prisoner was still shackled by hands and feet and had a black mask pulled down over his head. Each was wearing a bright orange jumpsuit adorned with his ID—K-1, K-2, and so on—painted in large black letters on the back.
The process began. Apple and the Iranian general sounded off as each man emerged from the van. Then, as two Marines escorted each detainee to the bottom of the ramp, the general would check off a number corresponding to the back of the prisoner’s uniform. The detainee would then be allowed to climb up into the plane and be seated. At U.S. insistence, the shackles and hoods would not be removed until the Transall-2 was airborne.
The loading process took longer than expected because the detainees came off the van out of order. They were rearranged in their seating by the plane’s pilot, and only then did Apple and the Iranian general agree that the exchange was complete.
Again, there were no handshakes. The Iranian general simply climbed up the ramp and closed it himself with a push of a button. Not 30 seconds later, the plane’s engines revved up and it began pulling away. The Marines slowly withdrew from the runway. The Transall-2’s pilots added more power, their props now screeching in the tempest. There was no conversation with the base’s air traffic control tower. The plane immediately went into its takeoff roll.
It needed the entire length of the 6,000-foot runway, but
somehow, someway, the plane finally went wheels up and, in an explosion of spray and exhaust, climbed into the very stormy night.
Apple returned to his living quarters just outside Camp X-Ray, went directly to his kitchen cabinet, and broke out a bottle of cheap Cuban whiskey. He poured some over a few melting ice cubes and, with the thunder still crashing outside, drained the contents of his glass in one noisy gulp.
He was three weeks away from retirement. Full pension, house on Chesapeake Bay. The works. That this pain-in-the-ass deal was finally over made him very happy. All he had to do was phone in a report to his boss in Washington; then he would go to sleep for about a week. After that, he could start thinking about packing his government bags for good.
He poured himself another healthy drink, then padded into the living room of his glorified hut. He picked up the secure scramble phone to Washington, but before he could punch in the first number he heard a commotion outside. He could see through his picture window that a Humvee had screeched to a halt on his sandy front lawn. Six Marines fell out of it; two immediately ran up to his front door. They did not knock, didn’t bother to ring his doorbell. They simply burst in, soaking wet, M 16s pointing everywhere. They looked scary.
“What’s happened?” Apple demanded of them.
The Marines just grabbed him by the shoulders and carried him out of his hut.
“You’ve got to come with us!” one of them yelled at him.
The ride up to the detainee compound was the most hair-raising event of Apple’s life. The Humvee driver was a kid no more than 18, and the other Marines were screaming at him to go faster … faster! … faster! The kid followed orders and drove the winding, muddy, very slippery road like a madman, nearly sending the Humvee hurtling over the cliff many times.
Somehow they made it to the main compound gate. This
barrier was open—never a good sign. The Humvee roared right through, drove the length of the barbed-wire encirclement and down another series of hills to an isolated plywood barracks. This was where the seven guys named Khameni had been kept during their incarceration.
There was another gaggle of Marines here, and a few SEALs, too. All of them were excited and soaked. Conversation had been hopeless in the swift ride here; the wind and torrential rain did not help it now. The Marines yanked Apple out of the Hummer and into the isolated prisoner barracks.
The interior was dark; only the beams from several flashlights broke through the fog that had seeped in here. The State Department rep, not used to all this excitement, nearly slipped three steps in. The floor was coated with something very sticky. A young Marine beside him directed his flashlight at the floor.
“Be careful, sir,” he told Apple.
That’s when Apple realized they were both standing in a pool of blood.
More flashlights appeared and now they lit up the entire room. On the floor in front of him Apple saw the bodies of seven men lined up in a row. Clad only in their underwear, each had had his throat cut.
Apple’s first thought was that these people were Marine guards—but actually the opposite was true. They were detainees, more specifically, the seven Iranian prisoners named Khameni. It took several long moments for this to sink into Apple’s brain. Then, through the blood and rain and wind and chaos around him, it hit like a lightning bolt. He grabbed the young Marine next to him.
“Are these really K-One through -Seven?” he asked in astonishment.
The man nodded blankly. “We’ve already ID’d them through photographs,” he said. “Those are them, sir.”
Apple nearly slumped to the floor. He felt like he was suddenly living inside a ghastly dream. What his eyes were telling him simply seemed inconceivable. How? Why?
Then another thought struck. This one even more troubling than the seven murdered prisoners.
“But if these are the Iranians,” he mumbled, “then who the hell … ?”
“Got on that plane, sir?” the Marine finished his question for him. He just shrugged. “We have no idea.”