Special Access

by Mark A. Hewitt

  Two men at the far end of the parking lot yawned and stretched at the increasing sound of the approaching business jet. They followed the man and the white truck to the airport two days earlier. The only lit building along the main road appeared to be the executive terminal, where a small jet sat on the far side of the building with its engines running and lights off.

  “I can’t read the tail number,” the driver told the passenger, as he went down the access road, turned into the employee parking lot, and positioned the car so it had a full view of the building’s front door and tail of the jet on the other side.

  When the jet came alive with activity, some external lights flashed, but the driver still complained, “They still no show the number.”

  The jet slowly disappeared from view, its lights flashing. Minutes later, the driver pointed toward the departing aircraft. The passenger nodded, withdrew a black smartphone from his shirt pocket, and quickly tapped the screen. During the next thirty-five hours, several jets and propeller airplanes came and went from the other side of the building, but the man from the white truck didn’t show.

  When the jet awoke Omar, he jostled Hamid awake. Unlike the other aircraft, the white-and-red jet kept making noise soon after it stopped on the other side of the building. Omar nearly missed the big man as he ran from the building and disappeared behind the white truck. He was shocked when the pickup suddenly sped off.

  “Follow him!” Hamid shouted.

  The old Honda Civic started and lurched from the parking lot. In seconds, the driver was able to see the fast-moving truck ahead. Hamid watched the Toyota, as Omar weaved in and out of traffic. The truck headed toward the owner’s small ranch home north of Newport.

  The passenger lightly touched the screen of his smartphone and typed, Man return airprt. Drive 2 hous. Pleased with himself, Hamid sent the message.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  0715 June 11, 2011

  Newport State Regional Airport

  Hunter sat at the hold short waiting for the Piper Cherokee to land. He listened to ATIS, adjusted both altimeters, checked the windsock, and rescanned his instruments. Just as he was about to check the progress of the Cherokee, his peripheral vision caught the red flashing light from the BlackBerry clipped to his flight bag. An e-mail or text message had been received.

  “Takeoff checklist complete,” he said playfully. “Same day rules apply, Mr. Cherokee.” Hunter was anxious to get started but wasn't going to be rushed. The aircraft was slow to land, and knowing he had some time, he grabbed the BlackBerry and punched in the access code.

  Found it, was all Nazy had sent on the subject line.

  Hunter stared so long the device went into its power-saving mode, and the image faded. He pushed the Select button again, then jumped when the device vibrated and rang.

  On way home with books. All there, plus more. I need 2cu.

  He used both thumbs to type a quick reply. 10-4. Plz go2 grinches will come 4u soon txt when there plz.

  The control tower called, clearing Hunter for takeoff. Again, his BlackBerry rang and buzzed.

  There is more very scared need ttty asap.

  When I land will call grinches be safe ttys.

  K.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  0730 June 11, 2011

  Claiborne Pell Bridge Newport, Rhode Island

  Eastbound traffic was stopped at the toll booths. Car parts lay scattered across four lanes. A dozen eighteen-wheelers, panel trucks, and light vehicles awaited the emergency to be cleared from the longest suspension bridge in New England. A young woman trying to send a text message while driving was hit head-on by a young man who’d been fired from his job, snorted some cocaine, and got into his car to see how fast he could go up the bridge. Airbags saved the lives of the distracted youngsters, now being attended by emergency medical technicians.

  The dull white van disappeared among the dull whites of cargo trailers and their idling tractors. Resting in the passenger seat, the tablet computer emitted a ringtone rap from new hip hop that flooded the airwaves in California, signaling, you have mail, Dude.

  The driver reached across the engine cover to retrieve the device. One hand, with a thick crosshairs tattoo, flitted across the touch screen, providing security codes and commands to open e-mail. He had so much to do. He expected updated information on the target in Rhode Island. Two taps of the screen finally opened a window.

  Address: 7445 Polo Court Drive Vehicles: White 4dr Tacoma 23-KYSI Black 4dr Land Cruiser 24-RREW

  Family is away The target is in house No unusual activities.

  Returned from airplane trip 7:00 AM June 11

  No further information at this time. Bettawfeeq Inshallah

  Two more taps opened the attachments that gave pictures of the target, dated 2003 and 2004, in uniform and civvies, and pictures of the house and a driveway leading up toward the house.

  Traffic finally began to break up, as two ambulances raced counterflow to those waiting to cross the bridge into the historic town of Newport. The man smiled. It was time to get to work. He reached for the GPS and input the address. He had 14.7 miles to go.

  “You can run, SEAL, but you’ll just die tired. Allahu Akbar.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  0830 June 11, 2011

  Sikorsky Memorial Airport Stratford, Connecticut

  Greg Lynche lined up the YO-3A on the short grass strip. The two-story farmhouse and barn held plenty of vehicles, mostly trucks and tractors. He looked for a windsock, found a small red one indicating a slight, steady crosswind. Double-checking the wind direction on his GPS, he was satisfied. He had the throttle on idle, flaps full, and gear down, with the aircraft’s nose pointed toward the end of the strip. No aircraft were in the area or on the ground.

  “Double-check one, two, three gear down,” he said, momentarily recalling the lapse that led to his new routine of double-checking, placing his fingers on the three landing gear position indicators to show they were indeed down and locked.

  It was several months since he had flown 007. Duncan was the designated pilot for the operation. Although Greg flew when they were airborne, it was rare that he took off or landed the aircraft. There were no pleasure flights with 007. It was a top secret workhorse under a Special Access Program contract with the CIA.

  007 had been flown in daylight only once in the last ten years—and that was today. He worried he’d do something stupid with the tail dragger and ground loop the aircraft after touchdown or smash the brakes and flip it tail over nose, with no wind, in the daylight.

  “OK, Lynche. Just like all the other landings. Don’t fuck this up. Gear down triple-check.” He was distinctly nervous.

  The owners of the private landing strip never heard the aircraft circle overhead, land, or taxi to the far end of the treeline. Lynche powered up the engine and spun the tail around for an expeditious departure, keenly aware of the Wraith’s extended wings. He shut down the engine, selected Battery OFF, raised the canopy, and unbuckled his shoulder and lap belt and his helmet chin strap. The farmhouse and vehicles were at his two o’clock. No one came running out with a shotgun, pitchfork, or camera.

  He already decided he’d wait until someone from the house came to investigate. The benefit of having a noiseless aircraft was that one could operate unobtrusively. Still, it was hard to hide a matte black, one-of-a-kind, spy plane in plain sight.

  While he waited, he typed into his BlackBerry his GPScoordinates, and that he was safe on deck twelve miles north of the old Bridgeport airport, now called Sikorsky Memorial in tribute to Igor Sikorsky of flying boat and helicopter fame.

  Hunter responded with a text message. He, too, was on the ground and on his way. He called Lynche's house from the FBO. No one answered, and Nazy didn’t reply to his text messages. Text messaging became the communication mode of choice. When encrypted, texts enabled complete privacy to exchange messages with each other without fear of compromising or intercepting the message.

&nbs
p; The BlackBerries carried by Nazy, Lynche, Hunter, and the two Bobs used data network authentication using an unbreakable encryption key. The software successfully passed highly advanced security tests conducted by the Israeli Ministry of Defense, and the CIA’s Science and Technology Directorate. What the team didn’t want to do was come under the scrutiny of the NSA’s ECHELON computers, which could break any encrypted voice or data transmission. They felt they were flying under the DCI’s radar, but Nazy’s last text message and the lack of an answer at Lynche's house phone gave Hunter increasing cause for concern.

  Before the three men implemented their plan to find and interdict the sniper that may or may not be on his way to Newport, text messages were sent to Bob and Bob: Come to the factory ASAP. Need the support gear/trailer plus fuel. Plz hurry and be safe.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  1730L June 11, 2011

  USS Texas, SSN-775 Diego Garcia, Indian Ocean

  In a ceremony that traced its origin to Navy Lieutenant John Paul Jones, Captain Danny Cox presented himself to the Officer of the Day, saluted, and, in command voice, said, “Request permission to leave the ship, Sir.”

  The ODD responded, “Permission granted, Sir,” returned the salute, and piped the captain off the Texas. Over the 1MC, the OOD announced, “DEVGRU, departing.”

  Captain Cox took two steps down the gangway, turned toward the stern, saluted the national ensign, about-faced, and continued down the gangway onto the pier. A sedan and driver awaited the SEAL Team Six commander to take him to the Bachelor Officer Quarters.

  Two hours earlier, Captain Cox had returned from SOCOM for the second time in a month. A week after the highly publicized takedown of Osama bin Laden, several SEALs from the mission were conspicuously missing, with other members of DEVGRU filling in for their friends still in the war zone. After a weeklong goat rope encompassing a couple of dog-and-pony shows and a grip-and-grin photo op between SEALs and POTUS, Cox became increasingly more furious and concerned. The president suddenly seemed to have discovered the military and how wonderful it was. SEALs and especially Team Six were national heroes for taking out Osama bin Laden, and the Pentagon and SOCOM looked to milk the operation and the SEALs’ success for everything they could.

  Cox debriefed SECDEF and SOCOM and strenuously voiced his concern that the continued focus on DEVGRU operations and tactics would likely jeopardize future operations and the men’s personal safety.

  “There will be retaliation,” he said sharply. “It’s just a matter of when. This shit needs to stop. Anything further that comes out could damage our operational security, might reveal tricks of the trade, and could endanger our families. This shit must stop and now!”

  The SOCOM commander agreed and SECDEF came around to their thinking. A public affairs statement was issued, and the SECDEF briefed the president to cool it. After the brouhaha died down, as Captain Cox headed back to Baghram, the OOD informed him a retired SEAL died in Colorado under suspicious circumstances. Under normal conditions, he would have gotten more information and attended the funeral. Over the years, SEALs developed a somber ritual for a downed comrade, and a funeral wasn’t to be missed unless a SEAL was otherwise engaged, like at war.

  Cox significantly underestimated the challenges ahead. Over the previous month, he and his little band of co-conspirators were frustrated and grumbling about what they should have done and what needed to be done. Whatever struck the SEAL commander as the right and proper thing to do with the world’s most wanted terrorist later came to strike him as folly.

  “We should’ve just killed him,” he told the USS Texas commander, a Naval Academy and Naval War College classmate.

  Danny Cox and Dallas Smith were roommates at Annapolis and remained close. Dallas knew Danny would do great things in the SEALs, and Danny knew Dallas would do great things in the submarine corps. At the USS Texas change of command, Captain Cox was invited to say a few words.

  “Who else would be better to command this amazing boat than someone named Dallas, who was born in Amarillo and has brothers named Houston and Austin?”

  Cox knew he probably overstepped the bounds of friendship by involving Dallas and the Texas, but Dallas Smith disagreed strenuously.

  “Ox, I know you’d do the same for me if the roles were reversed. I think you did an incredibly brave thing. In hindsight, with everything you told me, there wasn’t any other choice. My assessment is this will take a little longer than you’d like. We have to get him to the right place in the hands of the right guys. That’s our job. The Texas is the right boat at the right time to help.”

  Cox grabbed the man’s outstretched hand and squeezed.

  Danny Cox was a very hard man, and the strain on him was incredible.

  Dallas Smith watched the eyes of the big man called Ox. He thought they would well up, but they did not. Ox quickly composed himself and took a deep breath. “Yes, but where and who?”

  “I think we need outside help, someone with connections.”

  “That leaves only one dude—Bullfrog.”

  “Bullfrog?”

  “Captain Bill McGee. He was the Team Six commander who led the first S&D into Afghanistan after 9/11. Shit for brains was already in Pakistan. The man’s a legend in SEAL circles and he has connections out the wazoo. He and I spent time at the CIA, Team Six at different times, but even there, he was a rock star.”

  “Sounds like a real patriot.”

  “He is and he can keep a secret. I’ll see if he can help. If anyone can at our level, it’s him. Either that, or he can give us a vector. We need something more than just holding the bastard in the brig.”

  Cox unlocked his BOQ room and dropped his kit on the sofa. He sat at the desk, pulled a laptop from his briefcase, turned it on, and accessed the Internet. He’d been thinking what Dallas said and thought for a moment that he and Dallas could be shot for perpetrating one of the greatest bait-and-switch routines in history. When the President wanted Osama bin Laden killed instead of captured and interrogated for everything in his head, Cox couldn’t execute the order or complete the mission. Killing Osama bin Laden was the right thing, but with the president changing the op order just as Team Six was about to embark aboard the helicopters, Cox knew something was very wrong. The plan had always been to snatch him, take him alive, and pump him for info.

  Following the president’s bidding would clearly have been a high crime, if not outright treason. Months of practice to ensure the team could take Osama bin Laden alive came down to a phone call to change the plan.

  As the clock ticked down to their time to mount up and depart, Cox told his team, “We want to know what’s in that fucker’s head. Too many innocent people died because of that fuckstick. The American people want to know what’s in his head, so we can find out who his buddies are, hunt them down, and kill them. I want to know what’s in that fucker’s head. I want to empty it and then fill it with something more than lead. He won’t get off easy with a bullet in the brain. He needs to talk. He’s going to talk, and he’s going to pay.”

  When the assault team lifted off from its base in Afghanistan and headed to Pakistan, the recurring question of why the president wanted Osama bin Laden dead remained unanswered. The situation created a conflict within Cox. For twenty-five years, his job was to follow orders, kill America's enemies, protect his country, and complete the mission.

  The president gave him an illegal order. He wanted SEALs to cheat thousands of families who lost loved ones and wanted vengeance. The president wanted Cox to cheat millions of Americans out of what was rightfully theirs. Vengeance didn’t come from a quick shot to the head.

  In the helicopter, drowned out by engine and transmission noise, Captain Danny Cox vowed, “I’ll kill his ass, but not before I’ve extracted every bit of intel from him, then I’ll cheat that fucker out of his seventy-two virgins.”

  Five weeks later, no one would have believed that a handful of SEALs could have orchestrated the death of Osama bin Laden in his be
droom, only to have him sitting quietly in the brig of one of America's newest attack subs, awaiting interrogation.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  0800 June 11, 2011

  7445 Polo Court Drive Newport, Rhode Island

  McGee made it very difficult for any long-range sniper to reasonably target him around his property. He moved robotically. He walked, stopped, and faked a step in one place, and then went in another. He ran until he was inside the house.

  Once inside, he raced to the basement, where he kept excess gear and weapons accumulated over thirty-five years of naval service. He rummaged through several parachute bags, stuffed with different uniforms, and selected two dark-green ghillie suits, two sets of dark camouflage tops and bottoms, and half a dozen armored vests of different weights and materials, Kevlar and ceramic.

  He carried them upstairs and dumped them on the sofa. Returning to the basement to one of three 2.5-foot-by-5-foot gun safes, he keyed in the electronic code, unlocked, and opened the door. Taking a deep breath and mentally inventorying what he felt he needed, he first withdrew a heavily customized M-4 with laser sights. From the top shelf, he grabbed a single fully-loaded, extended-length clip; he slammed it home and pulled the charging handle. He was locked and loaded with the selector set to SAFE.

  His next selection was a Weatherby .300 Magnum with 12x scope, laser sighted to 1,000 yards. He rocked a box of ammo toward him and extracted six rounds, pushed two into the magazine, and racked another in the chamber. Checking the safety was on and scope covers removed, he set it aside.

  He removed a pair of Kimber Tactical Custom 1911 pistols. From the top shelf, he selected a pair of magazines, checked they were hollow-points and fully loaded, rammed the clips into the handles, and pulled the slides, chambering a round before flipping the safety selector to On. He slid one into a holster, and the other went into the space between the small of his back and his cargo pants.