by Jeff Rovin
AG: I, of all people, was sent to assess the faith of a small force of Houthi who had come up from Aden to fight Kurds.
CW: That would be an extension of the tactical and financial support your government has been providing the Houthi throughout Yemen.
AG: That is correct.
That did not seem to connect directly with today’s attack. But Williams couldn’t dismiss it.
The phone sounded.
“Yes, Matt?”
“The Canadians are looking into a connection between the two hits and the terror group Jamaat al-Muslimeen.”
“In Trinidad,” Williams said.
“They’re based there, but they’re all over the Caribbean,” Berry said. “The president thinks we should get you down there. If there is a Canadian cell, and if they were directed from that region, it’s possible Salehi is being leapfrogged from Havana to the Caribbean Basin and then to parts unknown.”
“Possibly,” Williams agreed.
“It’s a five-hour flight,” Berry said. “If your team leaves within the hour, you can drop in under cover of darkness.”
“I’ll let them know,” Williams said. “One thing, Matt. I’m going with them.”
The phone was silent for a moment.
“Matt?”
“You know, I told the president you’d say that.”
“What was the president’s reaction?”
“He said he didn’t care as long as you caught Salehi.”
“Tell him I appreciate the support,” Williams said.
“Consider it more leeway than actual support,” Berry told him.
“I know,” Williams replied. “I’ll let you know when we’re in-country.”
“I’ll arrange with the Fourth fleet to have sea extraction to be standing by—until then, watch yourself,” Berry said before hanging up.
That, too, was a little soft—but understandable. If Williams or any team members were caught, attention would be drawn to whoever sent them there. To protect the president, it was likely that Berry would have to fall on his sword. In its own way, it spoke to the man’s patriotism and trust that he put the apprehension of Salehi above his own career security.
* * *
The only team member actually asleep was Major Breen. He had learned, in his years of crisscrossing the country on JAG business, to grab snatches of rest when it was at all possible.
Assembling in the dining area, in civilian clothes and with only their equipment vests, the team was met by Sergeant Major Stewart Siena of the Army Air Operations Group. Williams did not have a vest but he improvised in the kitchen, taking food implements—including a butcher knife—he felt he could use. He put them in a white apron and used the strings to make a bundle of it. They piled into a camouflaged Humvee for the short ride to the 12th Aviation Battalion’s Lakota Hangar.
“Your chutes are aboard the UH-60 and I’m informed you’ve all jumped,” the sergeant major said.
“We’re prepared,” Williams assured him from the passenger’s seat.
“Very good, sir,” Siena said. “We’re going to ferry you to Elgin in Florida and they’ll fly you the rest of the way on an F27 Friendship. The plane’s turboprops sound the same as a lot of the local aircraft so it won’t attract attention. The ’60 would have to make one refueling stop and, even with the top airspeed, that would not put you on target in darkness.”
“Understood and thanks for pulling this together.”
“It’s what we do, sir.” The young man smiled. He received a text as he drove. “The atmospheric dynamics chief down there says … you’re good. Sunrise is at 06:51 so you’ve got about a thirty-minute buffer, given that they’re an hour ahead plus air speed variations due to possible headwinds and a storm system west of Saint Vincent and the Grenadines.”
Williams loved this, the efficiency of the military. They got knocked around a lot by politicians and the press for their high expenditures, pork, and boondoggles. And that was fair. But the people in the system, their professionalism, had never failed to inspire. It felt good to be back. It also felt good to be appreciated. At the end of the drive, the sergeant major complimented him on his grip.
“Old school field improv, sir,” he said with a salute. “I like it.”
The Black Hawk was waiting and the team was airborne just over a half hour after Williams and Berry had spoken. The parachute check went quickly; the riggers had done an impeccable job with the T-11 Personal Parachute Systems. The main canopy had a larger inflated diameter and an increase in the surface area than the T-10, which minimized the yank of opening and also descent sway. Injuries upon landing were reduced by the reduction in the rate of descent from twenty-four feet per second to nineteen feet per second. The reserve canopy had a faster discharge in the event of malfunctions.
Williams had jumped several times with the T-10 and was confident he could handle this.
As long as you factor in the nearly twenty-year gap between jumps, he reminded himself.
The trip to Elgin passed quickly as the team reviewed data on their target area and both regional, English-language newspaper files and intelligence reports on the terror group. It had been sent to Williams by Berry and forwarded to each member’s secure smartphone. On-file data about the Caribbean terror group had been assembled for the Department of Defense with rapid-deployment attack strategies and special ops scenarios worked out by the U.S. Southern Command Response Group for Transregional Threat Networks. Berry had earmarked as “operational” Special Ops Insertion Plan D for the Black Wasps. That plan called for a drop north of the Navet River on Trinidad, just west of where it met the Nariva Swamp preserve.
“That’s a lot of water if you miss your spot,” Major Breen noted.
“White paper says the terrorists use the river to move supplies and personnel to Cocos Bay,” Williams said, “and from there to the Atlantic. Good place to gather intel. And also to get away—” he said as he checked a text from Berry. “Guided Missile Cruiser USS Jacinto is in the region along with other intelligence ships shadowing the Russians in the Atlantic.”
“A lot more activity down there than I’d’ve guessed,” Lance Corporal Rivette said as they were landing.
Rivette was right about that, Williams thought, but what grabbed his attention and wouldn’t let go—again—was what he had been considering back at Fort Belvoir: there was a diverse cast of players interacting here, any one of which could move the target in a different and unpredictable direction.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Port of Spain, Trinidad
July 23, 12:34 a.m.
The air-conditioning had been reason enough to have boarded the jet.
Ahmed Salehi was welcomed by a copilot who did not speak any language Salehi could understand, and the Iranian was left alone in the plush cabin. The flight from Havana to Piarco Airport, Trinidad, had taken an hour. During the trip, Salehi had used his smartphone to read about his destination. That was something he always did when he sailed; even en route to Havana, he had looked the nation up on his phone.
The islands of Trinidad and Tobago had been separate European fiefdoms since the arrival of Christopher Columbus, uniting in 1889 and finally becoming an independent republic in 1976. The republic thrived on tourism, and he could see why it was an ideal staging area for Jamaat al-Muslimeen. Travelers came here from around the world, and departed from here for countless global destinations. It would be easy for anyone with the proper document to come and go without having their background checked.
Not that the terrorists were able to function openly, as they once tried, as a political party. In July 1990, the Jamaat al-Muslimeen attempted a coup d’état that had failed—though it lasted for six days, during which the prime minister and members of his government were held hostage in Port of Spain. When it became clear that the effort had failed, the group arranged an amnesty in exchange for ending the crisis. Working underground, the group was responsible for bombings and at least one assassination, though
the rise of other extremist groups had forced them to turn their attention on their rivals more than on their enemies. It wasn’t just a territorial battle but a fight for funding that motivated them.
Provincial and poorly managed, Salehi thought. Yet someone with resources believes in them. I have been recovered at some expense.
Salehi used the rest of the time to do Krav Maga forms. Hand-to-hand combat was not only a necessary skill in his line of work, it also forced his brain to cede control to his body. Not thinking was a good thing, especially now. He was met by a lone driver in a nondescript black Toyota minivan. He felt a jolt when he deplaned and saw the car on the tarmac; he immediately thought of Akif in his van.
But if these people wanted you dead, they could have shoved you from the aircraft, he told himself.
The capital city was brightly lit and there was more traffic than he would have expected. There were large buildings here, as one would see in any substantial port city around the globe, and an active nightlife. That was left behind as they headed north from the dock area to the Diego Martin section. They pulled into the circular court in front of a modern, seven-story white apartment complex.
From there, Salehi was driven to the side of the building, down a ramp to an underground parking area where he was met by a pair of locals who were dressed in black T-shirts and black shorts. They were both tall, lightly bearded, at least six foot three, wearing sandals and dour expressions. The two appeared to be in their late twenties. They spoke to the driver, who departed. Eyes watchful and constantly moving—not nervously but methodically—one of the men got in front of Salehi, another behind, and they entered an elevator. During the short ride, the men introduced themselves as Nik and Vincent. Reaching the top floor, the Iranian found himself on a clean, quiet floor that brought them to a spacious, airy modern residence. Vincent lit a cigarette, offered one to Salehi. The Iranian shook his head. There was no fatwa about Islam and smoking, though without that legal opinion most of the people the captain knew erred on the side of abstinence. This man was probably less jihadist than angry, poor, and rebellious.
The apartment had a variety of weapons casually distributed about the living room: on a coffee table, on the kitchen counter, on the floor beside armchairs and the sofa. The ones he recognized were a CZ-75 self-loading pistol, a pump-action 12-bore shotgun, and a MAC-10 submachine gun. He also noticed the hilt of a machete sticking out from beneath the cushion of the sofa.
By the armrest, ready for a right-handed grab if needed, Salehi realized.
He briefly considered picking up one of the guns. He did not know if he might need it.
Salehi was directed to an arched doorway that lead to a terrace. En route, he passed two bedrooms, each with foldable cots stacked in a corner. Evidently, these two men were the gatekeepers of a transit hub. Members of the organization or its affiliates were no doubt housed here, briefed here, armed here, paid here, and then sent on their missions.
Vincent followed Salehi into the night. It was dark here, and quiet. There was a small, round, granite-topped table and a single iron chair. A laptop was open and facing the chair. The back of the computer faced outward; there was no angle from which the monitor would be visible other than the seat. It was obviously no secret who operated from this apartment.
Vincent bade the Iranian to sit. When he had done so, the other man left. He returned shortly with a bottle of water and a tray of fruit. Salehi selected an apple and looked out as he ate. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until now.
The captain’s head was swimming with disorientation. He could not believe it was just a little more than fifteen hours since the attack; the event seemed remote, as though it had been the work of someone else simply borrowing his body. The past few weeks had felt like that. And now, rather than being home, he was once again whiplashed to someplace new. At least, with sea voyages, there was time to adjust.
Thinking of the sea, any sea, gave him focus and helped to steady him. He looked across the table. There was an identical tower across the way, a few hundred meters distant, and beyond it, in the distance, the unruffled Bay of Paria; the lights of the boats upon it barely rippled. He had sailed to the Atlantic, to Venezuela and Suriname, but never to the Caribbean.
“‘You have an admirer in Sana’a who will give you sanctuary … and a boat,’” Juan Urrutia had told him. When Salehi pictured this region, saw the Boca de Serpiente, the Serpent’s Mouth, he suddenly wanted nothing more than to feel the motion of the mighty sea beneath his feet. The wild ocean, the unpredictable strait, the tranquil bay.
If for no other reason, that ship needed to burn, he thought back to the Intrepid. You do not put a warship in a zoo. You give it a fitting funeral, fire or water.
The laptop snapped on. Salehi put the apple core on the tray and turned his eyes toward the screen. A face filled the center.
It was a face he did not know and yet … did. It was a long, pale face, modestly bearded. There were black-rimmed eyeglasses, thick brows, and intense eyes. A white kufi sat on what seemed to be a bald head; the paleness of the skin seemed almost to blend into the headwear. The look was benign, apart from the eyes. The man looked similar to almost every senior cleric Salehi had ever met. He wondered if it were the learned serenity that made these faces seem alike.
“Welcome to Trinidad, Captain Salehi,” the man said.
The words were a pronouncement and the soothing effect of the sea had met its match: it was a gift to hear his own language spoken to him after so many weeks. Salehi did not doubt that was what the speaker had intended.
“Thank you, eminence,” Salehi replied—defaulting to a general honorific since he did not possess additional information.
The man on the monitor nodded slightly at the courtesy. “Call me Sadi,” he said quietly. “And it should be I who thanks you for your brave and important work today.”
“I feel I should tell you that it was a mission of honor, not ideology,” Salehi said. “And for my colleague, the late Dr. Akif, it was not even that. It was simply a task he had agreed to do.”
“I had a task for him as well,” Sadi said. “He would have been wise to accept, if not for himself than for his daughter and granddaughter.”
The comment caused Salehi to stiffen.
“Yes, Captain,” Sadi said, as casually as if he were accepting an offer for tea. “The mother and child were stopped as they attempted to reach the Canadian authorities.”
“Dead?” Salehi said. It wasn’t so much a question as an accusation.
“Sadly, yes. In my world, there are two kinds of people,” Sadi went on. “Those who are with me and those who are dead. The Pakistanis no longer matter. You do. Which will you be?”
“You ask this with an arsenal at my back,” Salehi said.
“A necessary precaution,” Sadi said. “In order to remain secure, the safe house you are in, as well as the people and methods that brought you there, must remain secret. But remember, too, I am also the one who saved you from becoming a pawn of the Assembly of Experts and the Russians. You would have been abandoned by your own people, turned over to the Americans, tried and publicly humiliated. I offer you life, service to Allah, and the sea.”
Salehi did not like this man or his methods. There was no honor, only fanaticism. There was no room for dissent. The captain had his disagreements with the ayatollahs in Iran, but like so many of his countrymen he had learned to live a largely secular life. Though he would be out of reach of Sadi himself, would he ever be free of his operatives?
The ages-old condition of every Persian, he reflected. Death or servitude. And death in this instance is measured in less than a few dozen heartbeats if Sadi is denied.
Salehi said, “You have a boat, I was informed.”
Sadi smiled for the first time. “I own a considerable fleet,” he said. “What I have for you is a bulk carrier, 203,000 deadweight tonnage, yours to command around the globe—along with an ongoing mission.”
“Wh
ich is?”
“To carry arms, persons, drugs, currency, and other commodities along with the stated cargo,” Sadi said. “All of this will be in furtherance of the cause of jihad. And you will be paid, as well. Everything quite legitimate.”
“On the surface,” Salehi said.
Sadi’s smile faded into his beard. “You say, Captain, that you are not an ideologue. But you are a Muslim.”
“Of course.”
“By that very acknowledgment, you accept that it is our mission to terrorize the unbelievers. ‘Therefore smite them,’” Sadi said, reciting from the Quran. “To accomplish this we require men of courage.” Sadi leaned slightly toward the camera. “Whether you embrace my offer with conviction or from necessity, the alternative is death. Death at the hands of my jihadists or by the corrupt will of the Americans.”
“You would accept a man who has been coerced?”
Sadi sat back. “I would accept and trust a man who became, today, a hero of the cause. Muhammad, peace be upon him, reveals that our success is only by Allah. To disavow you would be to disavow the Prophet and God Himself.”
The speaker did not strike Salehi as a flatterer or a manipulator. Sadi clearly believed in his self-appointed mission and, without sentiment or emotion, he would do whatever it took to fulfill that goal—including swift execution.
Salehi was faced with two entirely unsatisfactory options and a third that was far removed from the patriotic life he had lived. He would be an Iranian in name only and a naval officer not-at-all. Those thoughts were difficult to absorb.
But you would always know where you stood, he told himself, and given your newfound notoriety, at least you would have people watching your back. Plus you would be at sea.
And you would also be alive.
“I accept your offer, Sadi,” Salehi said. “What is the next move?”
“You will sleep tonight and fly to Yemen late tomorrow morning to see me,” Sadi replied. “I was … hopeful … of your acceptance; another of my private jets is already en route. I would shake your hand before you take command of your vessel. God’s peace be upon you.”