Operation Northwoods Read online

  “Some of these detainees are quite dangerous, I’m sure.”

  “Even the president’s toughest antiterrorism experts are beginning to worry about the growing clamor over holding prisoners indefinitely without formal charges. On the other hand, you could probably make a pretty strong case that some of these guys are among the most dangerous men in the world. So Camp Delta is a bit of a steaming political hot potato.”

  “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 Guantanamo 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 running into your bedroom in full SWAT regalia before dawn, generally they mean business. He decided to save the soapbox speech on civil liberties for another day, perhaps when his face wasn’t buried in the carpet and the automatic rifles weren’t aimed at the back of his skull.

  “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 involved—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?”

  “I…I 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.”

  The recording continued, “November two six Golf Mike, do you read?”

  Before Saint Preux could reply, the Cubans issued another warning in Spanish. “Reverse course immediately, or you will be fired upon as hostile aircraft.”

  “November two six Golf Mike, do you read?”

  “He’s hand signaling,” said Mustang. “I think he’s unable to talk.”

  The controller said, “November two six Golf Mike, steer two-twenty, south-southwest. Align yourself with the lead navy F-16 and you will be escorted to landing. Permission to land at Guantanamo Bay has been granted.”

  Jack’s gaze drifted off toward the window, the drama in the Cuban skies playing out in his mind.

  “Mustang, what’s your status?” asked the controller.

  “We’re in the corridor. Target is back on automatic pilot.”

  “Do you have the craft in sight?”


  “Yes. I’m on his wing now. That maneuver away from the MiGs really took it out of him. Pilot looks to be barely conscious. Dangerous situation here.”

  “November two six Golf Mike, please hand signal our pilot if you are conscious and able to hear this transmission.”

  After a long stretch of silence, Mustang said, “Got it. He just signaled.”

  The controller said, “Permission has been granted to land on runway one. You are surrounded by four F-16s, and they are authorized to fire immediately upon any deviation from the proper course. Do you read?”

  There was silence, then a response from Mustang. “He’s got it.”

  “Roger. Mustang, lead the way.”

  After thirty seconds of dead air, the controller returned. “Mustang, what’s your unaided visibility?”

  “Our friend should be seeing fine. Approaching the south end of the main base.”

  Matta used another stretch of silence to explain, saying, “The main base is to the east of the landing strip. They have to pass over the main base, and then fly across the bay in order to land.”

  “Whoa!” shouted Mustang. “Target is in a nosedive!”

  “November two six Golf Mike, pull up!”

  “Still in a nosedive,” shouted Mustang, his voice racing.

  “Pull up immediately!”

  “No change,” said Mustang.

  “November two six Golf Mike, final warning. Regain control of your craft or you will be fired upon.”

  “He’s headed straight for Camp Delta.”

  “Fire at will!”

  A shrill, screeching noise came over the speakers. Then silence.

  Matta hit the STOP button. “That’s it,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. Slowly, he walked around the desk and returned to his seat in the wing chair.

  Jack was stone silent. He wasn’t particularly close to Saint Preux, but it was still unnerving to think of what had just happened to him.

  Matta said, “Did Mr. Saint Preux have heart trouble?”

  “Not to my knowledge. But he had pancreatic cancer. The doctors gave him only a few months to live.”

  “Did he ever talk of suicide?”

  “Not to me.”

  “Was he depressed, angry?”

  “Who wouldn’t be? The guy was only sixty-three years old. But that doesn’t mean he deliberately crashed his plane into Camp Delta.”

  Matta said, “Do you know of any reason he might have to hate the U.S. government?”

  Jack hesitated.

  Matta said, “Look, I understand that you’re his lawyer and you have confidentiality issues. But your client’s dead, and so are six U.S. Marines, not to mention scores of detainees. We need to understand what happened.”

  “All I can tell you is that he wasn’t happy about the way the government treats refugees from Haiti. Thinks we have a double standard for people of color. I’m not trying to slap a Jesse Jackson rhyme on you, but as the saying goes—If you’re black, you go back.”

  “Was he unhappy enough to blow up a naval base?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I think you do know,” said Matta, his voice taking on an edge. He was suddenly invading Jack’s space, getting right in his face. “I believe that the heart attack was a ruse. I think this was a planned and deliberate suicide attack by a man who had less than six months to live. And I suspect the logistical support and financial backing for an organization that only you can help us identify.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” said Jack.

  “Are you going to sit there and pretend that he didn’t mention any plans to you, any organizations?”

  Jack was about to tell him that he couldn’t answer that even if he’d wanted to, that conversations with his client—even a dead client—were privileged and confidential. But one thing did come to mind, and it wasn’t privileged. Jean had said it in front of Jack, in front of Theo and in front of about a half-dozen other drunks at Theo’s tavern. Jack could share it freely.

  “He mentioned something called Operation Northwoods.”

  Matta went ash-white. He turned, walked into the next room, and was immediately talking on his encrypted cell phone.

  7:40 p.m., Two Weeks Later

  Sparky’s Tavern was on U.S. 1 south of Homestead, one of the last watering holes before a landscape that still bore the scars of a direct hit from Hurricane Andrew in 1992 gave way to the splendor of the Florida Keys. It was a converted old gas station with floors so stained from tipped drinks that not even the Environmental Protection Agency could have determined if more flammable liquids had spilled before or after the conversion. The grease pit was gone but the garage doors were still in place. There was a long, wooden bar, a TV permanently tuned to ESPN, and a never-ending stack of quarters on the pool table. Beer was served in cans, and the empties were crushed in true Sparky’s style at the old tire vise that still sat on the workbench. It was the kind of dive that Jack would have visited if it were in his own neighborhood, but he made the forty-minute trip for one reason only: the bartender was Theo Knight.

  “Another one, buddy?”

  He was serving Jack shots of tequila. “No thanks,” said Jack.

  “Come on. Try just one without training wheels,” he said as he cleared the lemons and saltshaker from the bar top.

  Jack’s thoughts were elsewhere. “I met with a former military guy today,” said Jack. “Says he knows all about Operation Northwoods.”

  “Does he also know all about the tooth fairy and the Easter Bunny?”

  “He worked in the Pentagon under the Kennedy administration.”

  Theo poured another shot, but Jack didn’t touch it. “Talk to me,” said Theo.

  “He showed me a memo that was top secret for years. It was declassified a few years ago, but somehow it never got much press, even though it was titled ‘Justification for U.S. Military Intervention in Cuba.’ The Joint Chiefs of Staff submitted it to the Defense Department a few months after the Bay of Pigs invasion. No one denies that the memo existed, though former Secretary of Defense McNamara has gone on record saying he never saw it. Anyway, it outlines a plan called Operation Northwoods.”

  “So there really was an Operation Northwoods? Pope Paul wasn’t just high on painkillers?”

  “His name was Saint Preux, moron. And it was just a memo, not an actual operation. The idea was for the U.S. military to stage terrorist activities at Guantanamo and blame them on Cuba, which would draw the United States into war with Cuba.”

  “Get out.”

  “Seriously. The first wave was to have friendly Cubans dressed in Cuban military uniforms start riots at the base, blow up ammunition at the base, start fires, burn aircraft, sabotage a ship in the harbor and sink a ship near the harbor entrance.”

  “Sounds like a plot for a bad movie.”

  “It gets better—or worse, depending on your perspective. They talked about having a ‘Remember the Maine’ incident where the U.S. would blow up one of its own ships in Guantanamo Bay and blame Cuba.”

  “But how could they do that without hurting their own men?”

  “They couldn’t. And this was actually in the memo—I couldn’t believe what I was reading. It said, ‘Casualty lists in U.S. newspapers would cause a healthy wave of national indignation.’”

  Theo winced, but it might have been the tequila. “They didn’t actually do any of this shit, did they?”

  “Nah. Somebody in the Pentagon came to their senses. But still, it makes you wonder if Jean was trying to tell us something about a twenty-first-century Operation Northwoods.”

  Theo nodded, seeming to follow his logic. “A plane crash on the base, a few U.S. casualties, and voilà! The burning question of what to do with six hundred terrorists is finally resolved. Could never happen, right?”

  “Nah. Could never—” Jack stopped himself. President Lincoln Howe was on television. “Turn that up, buddy.”

  Theo climbed atop a bar stool and adjusted the volume. On screen, P
resident Lincoln Howe was delivering a prime-time message with his broad shoulders squared to the microphone, his forceful tone conveying the full weight of his office. The world could only admire the presidential resolve of a former general in the United States Army.

  “The FBI and Justice Department have worked tirelessly and swiftly on this investigation,” said the president. “It is our very firm conclusion that Mr. Saint Preux acted alone. He filled a civilian aircraft with highly explosive materials to create the equivalent of a flying eight-hundred-pound napalm bomb. Through means of deception, which included a fake medical emergency, he gained permission to land at the U.S. Naval Air Station in Guantanamo. In accordance with his premeditated scheme, the plane exploded and created a rain of fire over Camp Delta, killing six U.S. Marines and over six hundred detainees, and injuring many others.

  “Naturally, our prayers and sympathies go out to the victims and their families. But I wish to emphasize that the speed with which we addressed this incident demonstrates that we will pursue terrorists and terrorist groups in whatever criminal guise they take, irrespective of whether they target American soldiers, innocent civilians or even foreign enemy combatants whom the United States has lawfully detained and taken into custody.”

  The president paused, as if giving his sound bite time to gel, then narrowed his eyes for a final comment. “Make no mistake about it. Although most of the victims were detained enemy combatants, this attack at Guantanamo was an attack on democracy and the United States of America. With Mr. Saint Preux’s death, however, justice has been done. Good night, thank you, and may God bless America.”

  Jack remained glued to the television as the president stepped away from the podium. Reporters sprang from their seats and started firing questions, but the president simply waved and turned away. The network commentators jumped in with their recap and analysis, but Jack’s mind was awhirl with his own thoughts. Was Operation Northwoods for real? Did Jack’s client do this as a favor to the U.S. government? Or did he do it to embarrass the Howe administration, as a way to make the world think that the president had put him up to this? None of those questions had been answered.