Thriller: Stories to Keep You Up All Night

"The official terminology is 'enemy combatant.' Originally, the only detainees there were the alleged members of the al-Qaeda terrorist network. In recent months, however, the United States has broadened the definition of 'enemy combatant.' As a result, Camp Delta now houses drug lords and rebels from South America, suspected war criminals from Chechnya, kidnappers and thugs from Cambodia and a host of others who meet the Defense Department's definition of 'enemy combatant' in the ever-widening war on terrorism."

"This whole issue of detainees-this has become quite an international sore spot for President Howe, has it not?"

"That's an understatement. You have to remember that none of the detainees at this facility has ever been charged with a crime. This all goes back to what I said earlier-the base is on Cuban soil. The Department of Defense has successfully argued in the U.S. federal courts that the base is not 'sovereign' territory and that inmates therefore have no due-process rights under the U.S. Constitution. The White House has taken the position that the military can hold the prisoners indefinitely. But pressure has steadily risen in the international community to force the U.S. either to charge the detainees with specific crimes or release them."

"Some of these detainees are quite dangerous, I'm sure."

"Even the president's toughest antiterrorism experts are begi

"Which has just burst into flames-literally."

"I think this is on the verge of becoming one of the toughest issues President Howe will face in his second term-What should be done with all these enemy combatants that we've rounded up and put into detention without formal charges?"

"From the looks of things, someone may have come up with a solution."

"I wasn't suggesting that at all, but-"

"Mr. Polk, thank you for joining us. CNN will return with more live coverage of the fire at the U.S. naval base in Guan-tanamo Bay, Cuba, after these commercial messages."

Jack hit the mute button on the remote. "You still there?" he asked over the phone.

"Yeah," said Theo. "Can you believe he did it?"

"Did what?"

"They said it was a Cessna. Wake up, dude. It's Operation Northwoods."

There was a pounding on the door. It had that certain thud of authority-law enforcement. "Open up. FBI!"

Jack gripped the phone. "Theo, I think this lawyer may need a lawyer."

There was a crash at the front door, and it took Jack only a moment to realize that a SWAT team had breached his house. Jack could hear them coming down the hall, see them burst through the bedroom door. "Down, down, on the floor!" someone shouted, and Jack instinctively obeyed. He had never claimed to be the world's smartest lawyer, but he was sharp enough to realize that when six guys come ru

"Where's Jack Swyteck?" one of the men barked at him. "I'm Jack Swyteck."

There was silence, and it appeared that the team leader was checking a photograph to confirm Jack's claim. The man said, "Let him up, boys."

Jack rose and sat on the edge of the bed. He was wearing gym shorts and a Miami Dolphins jersey, his version of pajamas. The SWAT team backed away. The team leader pointed his gun at the floor and introduced himself as Agent Matta, FBI.

"Sorry about the entrance," Matta said. "We got a tip that you were in danger."

"A tip? From who?" "Anonymous."

Jack was somewhat skeptical. He was, after all, a criminal defense lawyer.

"We need to talk to you about your client, Jean Saint Preux. Did he act alone?"

"I don't even know if he's done anything yet."

"Save it for the courtroom," Matta said. "I need to know if there are more planes on the way."

Jack suddenly understood the guns-drawn entrance. "What are you talking about?"

"Your client has been flying in the Windward Passage for some time now, hasn't he?"

"Yeah. He's Haitian. People are dying on the seas trying to flee the island. He's been flying humanitarian missions to spot rafters lost at sea."

"How well do you know him?"

"He's just a client. Met him on a pro bono immigration case I did ten years ago. Look, you probably know more than I do. Are you sure it was him?"

"I think you can confirm that much for us with the air traffic control recordings." He pulled a CD from inside his pocket, then said, "It's been edited down to compress the time frame of the engagement, but it's still highly informative."

Jack was as curious as anyone to know if his client was in-volved-if he was alive or dead. "Let's hear it," he said.

Matta inserted the CD into the player on Jack's credenza. There were several seconds of dead air. Finally a voice crackled over the speakers: "This is approach control, U.S. Naval Air Station, Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. Unidentified aircraft heading one-eight-five at one-five knots, identify yourself."

Another stretch of silence followed. The control tower repeated its transmission. Finally, a man replied, his voice barely audible, but his Creole accent was still detectable. "Copy that."

Jack said, "That's Jean."

The recorded voice of the controller continued, "You are entering unauthorized airspace. Please identify." No response.

"Fighter planes have been dispatched. Please identify."

Jack moved closer to hear. It sounded as though his client was having trouble breathing.

The controller's voice took on a certain urgency. "Unidentified aircraft, your transponder is emitting code seven-seven-hundred. Do you have an emergency?"

Again there was silence, and then a new voice emerged. "Yeah, Guantanamo, this is Mustang."

Matta leaned across the desk and paused the CD just long enough to explain, "That's the navy fighter pilot."

The recording continued: "We have a visual. White Cessna one-eighty-two with blue stripes. N-number-November two six Golf Mike. One pilot aboard. No passengers."

The controller said, "November two six Golf Mike, please confirm the code seven-seven-hundred. Are you in distress?"

"Affirmative."

"Identify yourself."

"Jean Saint Preux."

"What is the nature of your distress?" think I'm having a heart attack."

The controller said, "Mustang, do you still have a visual?"

"Affirmative. The pilot appears to be slumped over the yoke. He's flying on automatic."

"November two six Golf Mike, you have entered unauthorized airspace. Do you read?"

He did not reply.

"This is Mustang. MiGs on the way. Got a pair of them approaching at two-hundred-forty degrees, west-northwest."

Matta looked at Jack and said, "Those are the Cuban jets. They don't take kindly to private craft in Cuban airspace."

The recorded voice of the controller said, "November two six Golf Mike, do you request permission to land?"

"Yes," he said, his voice straining. "Can't go back."

The next voice was in Spanish, and the words gave Jack chills. "Attention. You have breached the sovereign airspace of the Republic of Cuba. This will be your only warning. Reverse course immediately, or you will be fired upon as hostile aircraft."

The controller said, "November two six Golf Mike, you must alter course to two-twenty, south-southwest. Exit Cuban airspace and enter the U.S. corridor. Do you read?"

Matta paused the recording and said, "There's a narrow corridor that U.S. planes can use to come and go from the base. He's trying to get Saint Preux into the safety zone."