The games were over by 1700 when we left to go home. There had been a few arrests for weapons and other incidents, but the events finished off a bad day with no new problems.

At Morton Field I picked up the package from the DHS then went to the jail at Camp Smith.

As soon as Saif saw me, it was obvious he knew who I was.

“I demand to see the Saudi Ambassador and to speak to a lawyer under the rules of the Geneva Convention,” he demanded.

“Crimes of terrorism are NOT covered under the amended Geneva Convention charter that was modified after 9-11,” I replied.

“I’m sure you are aware that a tribunal at Gitmo will make those decisions if you live long enough to get there. You could be three years getting a lawyer. You are going to start answering questions for me in a day or two,” I said.

“I will answer no questions. You are wasting your time,” he replied.

“We shall see,” I replied.

I turned to the cell Rafi Quastri was in, “Are you ready to answer questions?”

“Why should I? You have nothing on me.” he replied.

“I know a lot more about you than you think; all of it is bad enough for you to die. How well do you stand in with the Crown Prince Sultan al-Zahab? You took a lot of orders from him; will he bail you out or watch you die one little piece at a time?” I asked.

“He will negotiate; I am a blood relative,” he replied.

‘That offers all kinds of possibilities’ I thought as I turned and walked away.

At home I walked through the tunnel to the command center and then to Robert’s office. I placed Saif’s computer and phone on his desk with a note. Robert was coming in for a while in the morning to look and see what was on them.

The hot tub and several bottles of cold beer, a late supper was what it took to relax me and then precious time with my mates and little boys.

Tomorrow we were going to have our family Thanksgiving dinner. Because of all the activity, Lisa and Mom has agreed to postpone it on Thursday.

I had a bothered sleep. My mind just would not stop turning; so many things that had happened in the last few days. Also there was the loss of so many of the SWAT team members.

Breakfast was a modest affair; after all, there was going to be enough food to feed an army in a few hours. I helped the girls set up the garage with tables and chairs.

There were already a dozen crock pots on tables cooking all kinds of delicious things, according to the scents.

After everything was set up and cooking, there was no more that I could do. Mom had run me out of the kitchen twice as it was.

I went to the Morton restaurant and picked out breakfast for the inmates, apples, oranges and bananas. I also had the cook fix them eggs and steak. I also placed a clean orange jump suit, underwear, socks, towel and washcloth.

Back home I went to the office and tried to catch up on emails – and there were plenty.

I had a list of the services for the agents killed in the raids; the list had the complete information. The first one was Columbia Monday afternoon. The four DHS agents and the Columbia PD officers memorial service was going to be a joint service.

Two were Tuesday- one mid-morning and the other mid-afternoon – and two on Wednesday with the final one on Thursday.

I was saddened at all the officer deaths. But to read that all six at Columbia had been former military and were younger than 35, hit me especially hard. From the DHS side, two were Air Force and two were Marines. The two from the PD were Army.

There was a contact number for more information; I called and talked with the DHS agent who was handling the formalities and asked if I could participate in the standing guard.

I spent a few minutes with Robert and Burt; they were both working on the phone and laptop.

There were eight numbers in Saif’s phone; the six leaders, Rafi Quastri and Crown Prince Sultan al-Zahab. There were no text messages.

Robert was working on the computer, “It’s going to take a while, there is a lot of encryption.”

“Quit whenever you are ready, take a break; you have been busting ass for weeks. Take the rest of the weekend off, come join us for turkey. We have plenty, this will wait.

Our delayed Thanksgiving meal was superb as all the special meals were when the Moms had done the cooking. And then there were the deserts that had to be put off for at least an hour.

I made three plates and took them to Camp Smith with plastic utensils. This would be Saif’s last meal. The Doc, Eric, Frank and Marty Coeburn were coming at 9. I had told them to have all their questions written down, that this was the one time and only interrogation session there would be.

Men from the Rapid Response team were in the camp to make sure nothing happened.

The family outing together lasted until after dark. Jake and Mindy were the last to go home.

Mindy, Lorrie and Ching Lee were comparing baby craving symptoms and making plans. Jenny was leading on with the things to come.

The three were working out in the gym with an exercise program approved by the baby doc to keep the weight gains within reason and were comparing notes. There was no doubt that fun times were coming with those three girls.

With all of us on the floor in the living room, including the two little boys, we had an evening of family bonding. Of course the two little boys were more interested in finding Jenny’s nipples. Sometimes any visible nipple was fair game.

They were hungry all the time even though they devouring baby food by the case. They were also active, always on the move and into something.

I slept much better of course with Jenny’s arms wrapped around me holding me so tight I could barely breathe. That may have had something to do with it. We both woke up early, managed to get dressed and sneak out without waking the boys.

We would know immediately when they were up; they had learned that aggressively rattling the sides of the crib brought someone or everyone quickly.

Breakfast was well under way when they started shaking the crib. Clean diapers and in high chairs, breakfast became an experience. We were putting pieces of fried eggs, bacon, sausage and sugar smacks on their little plates.

As always it was a spectacle with the different faces and expressions with the different foods. Then there was always the clean up after the fun.

At 0845 Vicky and I went to Camp Smith to help the Doc get the equipment set up. We had barely finished when the rest of the group arrived.

Eric, Frank, Marty, and Ben Smith walked into the medical building.

“Why in the world did they bring squeamish Ben Smith?” I wondered.

Eric, Vicky and I carried Saif to the medical building; he was resisting all the way. Stripped down and an adult diaper on, it took all of us to strap him tightly to the table.

It took the Doc 10 minutes to get all the monitoring equipment hooked up. Then I started with my questions after Saif got the first dose.

It took two more doses before Saif decided it was better to answer questions. For the next six hours we took turns asking questions from our notes. Then we compared notes and asked more.

It took one more dose to finishing off the questions. The last dose took all the fire out of Saif; one more dose would have killed him. I didn’t want him to die that way.

I opened the bag of tools I had brought. When I was a teenager I had worked one summer at a dairy/feedlot where they grew beef cows. Dad and Jake had talked me into it.

Dad had grown up on a big working farm; Grandpa sold the farm when I was little. I had a few memories of it.

One of the things I had to do was to help castrate the males for beef; they grew faster and lost their meanness.

The tools allowed the testicles to be removed and the steer not to bleed to death. They were stainless steel and looked a little like over grown tree pruners, only one side had vein crushers with two different angles of serrations that had to be positioned towards the bull’s body. The serrations crushed and crimped the veins to stop bleeding.

The process went like this, the soon-to-be steers was herded into a corral and then locked into a portable stanchion one at a time. The farmer and his son arched the tail over the steer’s back. That position of the tail paralyzed the rear legs so the steer could not kick – or so they said and I had not seen one kick while held that way.

Crouched behind the steer while they held the tail, I had to cut the bottom of the scrotum to allow drainage as the castration healed. I used a scalpel called a little beaver.

Once the bottom was cut off, I pulled one testicle down – and making sure the tool was in the right direction – squeezed the handles tight and held it for 30 seconds to make sure the crimps did their job. The testicles went into a bucket. Then the process was repeated with the other testicle. The final thing was to splash a mixture of disinfectant on the cuts.

The testicles were thrown into a bucket. The farmer said they would be soaked in salt water for a while. They would then be sliced and batter dipped, then fried for supper. I never believed him but made sure I was gone by supper time.

When I was in an Afghanistan village, the women were talking when no men were around about how to destroy a man that was vile and mean to the village women. This was a village that was women dominate; the men were greatly out numbered because the men were with the Taliban and off fighting or killed. The men also rotated out to the mountain training camps.

They would drug his food with poppy mush; it that was a form of raw heroin that made him sick. The few men in the village would leave to go work the poppy fields or corn fields.

The women would castrate and remove his cock making him useless. He would be delirious under the drug that he would be fed for several days. The first thing it did was made them mellow, it also meant that he would be denied his virgins if he died without those body parts. It was the promise of Mohammad that a man was to get at death.

With the tools I removed Saif’ testicles and put them in a mason jar to go on my office shelf with the jar from the Prince. With a newer style castration tool and a hot knife, he lost his cock and it joined the testicles in the jar to be filled with alcohol. Every time he passed out an ammonia capsule brought him back.

“No virgins for you,” I told him. The look in his eyes told me he understood.

A capsule did not help Ben; he needed a trash can.

All of us went back to the chipper; I wanted to make sure that Ben helped to guarantee he kept quiet about what went on.

Before Saif was put in the feeder trough I put a large nylon tie strap at crotch level on each leg and pulled them as tight as I could to act as tourniquets.

It took two capsules to bring him around again as I lifted his head and shoved a log under it so he could see the chipper feed rolls.

“This is for all the innocent people you have killed,” I said and then started the chipper.

I pushed the feed lever until his feet were gone, then reversed it, showing him no feet. Two more capsules brought him back again and then he went in to the waist.

Ben was dry heaving off to the side.

Four more capsules this time to wake him, and then I pushed the auto feed button and watched as Saif disappeared.

The water was churning in the pond as the catfish were in a feeding frenzy.

“Saif is dead. Does everyone agree on that?” I said.

All of us loaded the trough with gallons of bleach and firewood. By the time we were finished, the catfish had finished and were gone.

Thirty minutes later twenty gallons of bleach and 10,000 gallons of water finished the clean up.

“I am not going to be in the office tomorrow. I will be in Minnesota in the morning and Columbia, South Carolina after lunch,” I told the group then added, “the Doc will be here Tuesday at 5 to interrogate the assistant and Rafi Quastri.”

“The four of you should be here,” I replied then added, “Ben, the second time will be easier on your stomach.”

Edit by Alfmeister

Proof read by Bob W.