“And, time sensitive,” Duncan added, thinking about the material in his hands, as Connie interrupted his thoughts.
“Greg, you’re supposed to be retired from that stuff,” she pleaded.
“We’re going to pick up Osama bin Laden.”
Lynche raised his head, surprised at Hunter’s calm demeanor and outburst. The women were shocked.
“You mean his body?” Connie asked.
“If something happens to us, you need to know the whole story,” Hunter said.
Nazy helped him pull on a long-sleeved T-shirt, first the left arm, then she pulled it over his head and double-checked the tape on his chest and back before threading his right arm through the remaining sleeve.
Hunter stood and told them the whole story, starting with McGee’s e-mail, the SEALs being killed, interdicting the sniper, worrying about Nazy, Greg’s flying solo at night, Hunter’s being shot, and the revelation that the world’s most-wanted terrorist wasn’t sitting at the bottom of the Indian Ocean with a hole in his head but was on a US Navy warship, very much alive and apparently unharmed.
Someone needed to take him from the Navy and transfer him to the appropriate hands for interrogation to find out what was in his hate-filled head.
“I’ve thought about it,” he said, “and there really isn’t anyone else I know—we know—who we can trust with a secret like this. There’s more to the story, and I’m interested in that, but it isn’t important how and why Osama bin Laden wasn’t killed in that raid. What’s important is extracting what he knows. It’s very disconcerting to read old embassy dispatches that our president had a couple meetings with him when he was young. When the president had the chance to take Osama bin Laden out, he dallied for months and put off the whole IC and SOF, ostensibly for political reasons, like the election. When I read those dispatches, I really want to know if we have an al-Qaeda branch in the White House.”
“Once you pick him up, then what?” Nazy asked. “Where will you take him? Who do you have in mind to interrogate him?”
“I don’t know anyone that close at my old place who can stick his neck out that far past a Presidential Directive, even if he isn’t who he says he is,” Greg said. “Do you know anyone we can trust with this information? First, no one would believe you. Second, it would take too long to get someone to move on official business. The unintended consequences of telling a civil servant might be to sign your death warrant. No, this has to be closely held. The DCI is complicit in some way, and he would never authorize an op. That leaves us with ourselves. I see this like breaking fine china. You broke it, it’s yours. Whatever you do with it is your business.”
For a moment they were silent, then Duncan’s BlackBerry vibrated with an incoming e-mail.
Hunter punched the center button, quickly moved past the security screens, and read. “You’ve love this. It’s from Bill. Quote, you were next and last on his hit list. He was going to Texas after Newport. Not the girlfriend. Why target SEALs? Why were you on his list? He doesn’t know. He just pulls triggers. Is given a name and address and real-time info via e-mail at every location. He doesn’t know but believes local mosque provides watchers and info on his targets. Emails end with good luck and God willing in Arabic.
“Replies to e-mail he received that mission is completed. Paid well. History: Failed SEAL training and USMC sniper school. Former world-class shooter. Born in US as Sam Miller. Converted to Islam. Hired as sniper in Africa, killed opposition leaders. Worked out of Sudan, Mali, Nigeria, Liberia, Congo. Paid by Saudi middleman. Tracked him down as the ops chief of one Prince Bashir out of Dubai.
“Break. Break. He RX info from local mosque at every location. Believes mosque in Boston watched my house and me. Have his laptop but can’t get in. No other questions possible. PS. Ox excited cavalry coming. Needs list of what you need. Send to me and I’ll forward. Out.’”
“What does it mean ‘no other questions possible?’” both women asked.
“I think the guy who shot me is meeting seventy-two Virginians right about now.” Hunter distorted the prize of Islamic martyrdom with heavy sarcasm. He suppressed a desire to poke at Greg about the effectiveness of enhanced interrogation techniques, but they were short on time, and he was distracted by knowing he was next on the hit list. Why him and how was that possible?
As the two men and two women came to grips with their parallel situations, Hunter asked for help thinking through the problem. They had a lot to do before their date with destiny.
The discussion around Connie Lynche's kitchen table began with Hunter outlining his proposed concept of operations. Nazy and Connie would disassemble the two books, scan the documents into a file, and have several hundred copies made. A photocopy business would do the work, but they had to avoid anyone scrutinizing the documents.
Nazy and Connie vetoed that idea. They offered a counterstrategy that the easiest and safest way was to scan each document, redact certain entries, and place them on an innocuous web site for all to see—just like the most-recent download of hundreds of classified documents onto the Web. They would provide the web site to the media and Congress. Hunter kyboshed the whole plan until they returned, but the ladies could scan all the documents from the books.
While they did that, Greg and Hunter would fly around the world, retrieve the terrorist, and find a place to hold him and someone to interrogate him. Hunter acknowledged that part of the plan hadn’t been completely thought through, and he was open to ideas.
McGee’s assessment that his friends had a jet and contacts within the CIA, along with the idea of spiriting someone away who was officially declared dead, was only one of several tips of submerged icebergs of logistical challenges. Getting to Diego Garcia was easy, though not for civilian aircraft. One needed prior permission before embarking on a flight to the middle of the Indian Ocean.
Then there was the security. It wasn’t possible to sneak a gnat onto an aircraft on a military base under the watchful eye of security forces south of two major ground conflicts. There would be records of the trip—fuel receipts, tower logs, aircraft registration numbers—and a host of other unexpected speed bumps to negotiate and obviate before any measure of success could be celebrated. The unintended consequences of bending any one of the logistics links would mean the operation could end in a disaster like the mess at Desert One, Operation Eagle Claw. Hunter was familiar with the total process, from soup to nuts as logisticians were fond of saying. There was no back-up plan, much like the Apollo mission to the moon. There was no time to practice either. They either planned and executed the operation perfectly, or people would die, or worse.
First, there was the minor issue of releasing the documents, long suspected in some quarters by one of the political parties while ridiculed by the other, that proved the commander in chief was really the communist in chief or charlatan in chief. Either way, he was disqualified from legitimately holding the highest office in the land.
Hunter wanted to expedite their release and handle it himself, to avoid endangering those around him from unintended consequences. He knew he had to be very careful. The political left viewed the media as an extension of leftist and socialist policy. The former administration couldn’t fart without the media screaming about a manufactured crime against humanity.
The current occupant of the White House was markedly worse in several areas. When he did something stupid or illegal, the media just yawned. The political right expected the media to report unbiased news and couldn’t believe they wouldn’t or couldn’t. The power grab of radical forces trampling over the Constitution, coupled with the dishonesty of the Democratic left, their communist friends, and the de facto state-controlled media provided enough incentive for any patriot to expose the president, their party, and the fifth column as totally corrupt and complicit in more than just simple impeachable offenses.
Hunter hoped the release of documents would also release the Hounds of Hell from the halls of Congress. He was unconcerned that a
rmed vigilante and veterans’ groups across the country would crawl over broken glass to help overthrow the dictatorial, illegal, and illegitimate government.
As McGee drove Hunter back to his rental, Hunter released a steady stream of thoughts, concerns, and challenges they had to overcome. “We need to make this as inconspicuous as possible, in and out with as little fuss and visibility as we can get. And, we’ll need help—not crazy help, just help. Can you see if your guy in Diego Garcia holds enough sway to ensure our jet isn’t on their landing history? I want to land there under cover of darkness. We’ll need a full bag of gas when we leave.
“For us to be successful, I have a vision of one of your guys borrowing a full fuel truck of Jet A or JP-8. Since it’s Diego Garcia, with all those Air Force jets going through there, they have JP-8. Ideally, they need to meet us on the ramp in some remote location. Parking in front of base ops with all those floodlights won’t be helpful.
“If I have to, I think I can remember how to operate an R-11, a 6,000-gallon refueling truck. We might have to take almost half of it to allow a 4,500-mile leg. I think we’ll need a guy in the tower to make sure no one accounts for our landing and takeoff. That’ll be the hard part. There was a famous scene in A Few Good Men where the duty controllers and the tower logbook were brought in as evidence. We don’t need something like that.”
McGee nodded. “We need to run it like a Special Access Program. Dudes with clearances are going to have to put their jobs and clearances on the line.”
Hunter agreed. “Do you think we can get a couple of SEALs for support? I envision a continuation of effort of what they’re doing right now. There has to be a rotating guard to make sure Osama bin Laden doesn’t wander off or hurt himself. We’ll need them for a few days. I know, at some point, they have to be replaced or returned to duty. Maybe we can drop them off in the Azores. I’ll figure something out. Maybe they have a Cadillac chit they can use. Maybe Ox will have an answer.”
“I don’t think that’ll be an issue. We couldn’t even begin to think about doing this without Ox’s help. Since he reached out to me, I sent him a message saying I have two trusted agents to help him.” McGee’s focus was on the prize. “Have you given any thought who we can reach out to for the interrogation?”
“I’m working on it. There are a thousand things that can go wrong just getting there and then getting off the island. Our chances increase exponentially if the right guys are in place to help. I’ll be counting on them to be there.”
McGee, stopping behind Hunter’s car, turned toward him. “I think I need to go with you, but I don’t know how long it’ll take to play twenty questions with our boy.”
“I’m not sure what I can do about that. We need that info from him.”
“Maverick, I agree, but I don’t see how I can go with you unless that shithead we left at my house is dead when I get back.”
“If that happens, call me. I’ll pick you up. Otherwise, we probably need you here as command post.”
“Roger. Be safe, Sir.”
“Aye, aye, my captain.”
Connie Lynche's questions brought Hunter’s mind back from its reverie.
“How long will you be gone? Will you be incommunicado? Where will you go and for how long? Who’ll interrogate him? That’s the purpose of this whole adventure, right?” Her stress showed in the way she launched bullet questions while trying to understand the enormity of the problems her husband and Duncan faced.
Nazy remained quiet and composed.
“I don’t know how long we’ll be,” Lynche said. “This is way outside my lane, and you know how I feel about torture.”
Hunter ignored the verbal slap from his friend. “I’ll figure out something. I’m certain if I tried to waterboard him, I’d drown him. You know how clumsy I can be.”
He tried to spin and pick up the books filled with their impeachable evidence only to inflame his obliques and ribs. Grimacing for a moment, he caught his breath and composed himself.
He handed the books to Connie. “Please put these in the safe until we’re back. I need to figure out how and to whom to send this data.”
Greg and Nazy watched in rapt attention, engrossed by the way Connie approached Duncan and slowly took the books, as if they were the only ones in the room, and she was going to drag him off to the bedroom.
“It’ll cost you,” she cooed.
Greg and Nazy stared at her flirtatious audacity. If she wanted to relieve some of the tension in the room, she failed miserably.
Duncan didn’t play. “It always does, Connie.” He hugged her and kissed her cheek as if she were his sister.
Connie feigned hurt, turned, and disappeared into the basement.
With all the imagined sexual tension released in the room, Hunter said, “We need to get going. We’ll need to pick up a few things before we take off.”
“Are you sure you’ll be OK?” Nazy asked.
“I’ll be fine.”
“He’ll be fine,” Greg said. “Look at him. After he’d been shot three times, that shithead looked like he was kicking his ass. Look at him now, hardly a scratch. He’s an animal.” Playful sarcasm dripped from every word.
“What do you need to do?” Connie asked, returning to the room.
“I need someone I trust and who can speak Arabic,” Hunter said. It was either the fatigue or the pain that affected his normally sharp mind. The moment he finished speaking, he slammed his eyes shut and cringed.
“I speak Arabic,” Nazy said coolly in Arabic, before switching back to English, “and I’m a trained interrogator. You can’t trust me?”
Duncan Hunter opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
0500 June 13, 2011
The Washington Post
Associated Press. CIA Director to Become VP
In a surprise announcement yesterday, Vice President Jack Bowen submitted his resignation to the President, citing health concerns. The President accepted the VP’s resignation with sorrow and said, “Jack has been a thoroughly fantastic vice president and confidant. I will always miss his wise counsel.” The President nominated the Director of Central Intelligence, Frank Carey, to fill the vacant seat, only the second time the vice presidential vacancy provision of the 25th Amendment has been implemented. It is expected there will be widespread approval to confirm in both the Senate and the House today. The White House announced a noon ceremony in the Rose Garden tomorrow, 14 June, for Frank Carey to take the oath of office as Vice President of the United States.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
0500 June 13, 2011
The Newport Daily News
Newport—Firefighters were dispatched to Wet Socks Curve off Polo Court in Newport County Sunday night for a vehicle fire. According to Jeff Wright, chief of the Volunteer Fire Company of Newport County, the vehicle was an older Chevy van with California license plates. Human remains were found in the vehicle, but the body was burned beyond recognition. Wright said residents of the area heard possible gunfire or fireworks the night prior but did not see anything unusual. Firefighters were on the scene about two hours, and there were no injuries. A Newport Community Ambulance was also on scene.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
1200 June 13, 2011
CIA Headquarters Langley, Virginia
The Old Office Building was in complete disarray with the vice presidential nomination of the DCI. Agency liberals quietly applauded the nomination. Agency conservatives quietly celebrated by softly humming Ding-Dong! The Witch Is Dead, which was heard throughout the cafeteria and into the atrium. Agency liberals were not amused.
The announcement that the DCI was departing the premises, hopefully never to return, came to some employees and contractors like an answer to their nonstop prayers. Others viewed the ascension of the DCI to the vice presidency as a plus, a way to maintain liberal grip on the government. Had there ever been a worse director? Even the Agency historian couldn’t remember.
Conservative Senior Intelligence Service executives pegged Frank Carey as an opportunistic predator who promoted himself and administration friends while demoting others who were viewed as challengers or who appeared to be unwilling to accept his leadership style. Carey acquired lackeys and obsequious lampreys eager to do his bidding, killing missions or gutting Special Access Programs inimical to the administration. Rarely seen off the top floor unless he wanted something, there was no love lost between the politically appointed DCI and his personal staff and the career civil servants who worked their way up the ladder and the Agency floors.
Carey wanted to get out of the building as soon as possible. The position served its purpose. He had the president’s file in a safe location, and he tried to race from the building and settle into his new office when he ran into the deputy director of operations seeking an official pass down and debrief. Even an outgoing DCI becoming vice president had to be debriefed when leaving oversight of Special Access Programs.
Carey tried to dismiss his official responsibilities as the head intelligence official, telling Deputy Wayne Okine, “You got it. I nominated you to be my replacement. I’m trying to get out of here. The VP left at a most awkward time.” Carey grinned unabashedly.
“Director Carey,” the thirty-year career intelligence officer replied, “as long as you’re alive and breathing, you have to be debriefed about ongoing missions and SAPs. I need about thirty minutes for a debrief and pass down, then we can help you leave.”
Carey was too distracted to catch the man’s slight expression of distrust and subtle words of sarcasm. Hank, the DCI’s personal secretary, had been madly packing the director’s personal effects and asked, “Director, Sir, what about this gun and naily thing?”
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