Allah's Scorpion

by David Hagberg

  “Has Joe Puckett gotten here yet?” Adkins asked. Four-star Admiral Joseph Puckett, Jr., was the new chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

  “Five minutes ago, and he wants to know what in damnation—his words—the CIA is playing at now, or something to that effect,” Beckett said. He was a serious no-nonsense businessman who, before President Haynes had tapped him for White House duty, had been the CEO of IBM.

  “Puckett’s always damning something, but he’s going to be even less happy when he and the president hear what I have to say.”

  “Have you guys found the submarine?”

  “Yes,” Adkins said. “And it gets worse.”

  “Bad timing,” Beckett remarked sourly. “Looks like his energy bill is going down in flames.”

  “Not a good day to be president,” Adkins said.

  The president, his suit coat off, was perched against his desk talking to his national security adviser, Dennis Berndt, and the admiral, who was a narrow-faced pale man with thinning white hair whose chest was practically covered with ribbons, including the Medal of Honor. None of the three men seemed happy or comfortable.

  “Here he is, Mr. President,” Beckett said.

  “Leave us,” Haynes told his chief of staff, who withdrew and closed the door.

  The topic on the table had nothing to do with White House staffing or politics, which were Beckett’s purview. Adkins had argued from the start to keep the need-to-know list at the absolute minimum, which had been McGarvey’s suggestion, to guard against the media stumbling across the story. What Americans didn’t need right now was something else to panic them. But he was surprised that the president had excluded his chief of staff, who was a friend and trusted adviser.

  “You’ve found the submarine?” Haynes asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good,” the president said. “Now explain it to the admiral, because the ball’s going to be in his court.”

  “Yes, sir,” Adkins said. He set his attaché case down, opened it, and withdrew a moderately thick briefing book, which he handed to the president. “This is everything as of noon. As you’ll see, the situation has become somewhat more complex and urgent in the past twenty-four hours.”

  The president laid the briefing book behind him on the desk. “I’ll look over the details later. For now bring us up to date, Dick. What’s the CIA found out?”

  “Al-Quaida has managed to get its hands on a submarine, a crew of Iranian ex-navy, we think, and an experienced captain,” Adkins said, directing his remarks to Admiral Puckett.

  “It’s the goddamned Russians and their Kilo boats,” Puckett said. “And I suppose the sub driver is a Russkie too.”

  “It’s a Libyan boat, actually,” Adkins said. “A Foxtrot. And the captain is a Perisher-trained Brit by the name of Rupert Graham.”

  The president, who had been contemplative, was angry all of a sudden. “That lying bastard Quaddafi,” he said. “Are you sure about this, Dick?”

  “Yes, sir,” Adkins replied. He quickly brought them up to date on the Indonesian captain’s story about Graham, the sinking of the Distal Volente, and the Sixth Fleet’s confirmation that the freighter was at the bottom of the Mediterranean. “A British NATO frigate tracked a Foxtrot through the Strait of Gibraltar and out into the open Atlantic a few hours ago, then lost her.”

  “Why the hell didn’t they follow her?” Haynes demanded.

  “Not their area of operations, Mr. President,” Puckett responded. “Did they get a course?”

  “Southwest,” Adkins said. “South America, perhaps.”

  “The Panama Canal again,” Berndt spoke up for the first time. “They’re persistent. But it won’t be so easy for them this time to get into the locks to do any damage. They’ll have to run on the surface.”

  “What about weapons?” Puckett asked.

  “At this point we have no idea,” Adkins admitted. “We have some assets on the ground in Tripoli and at Ra’s al Hilal, one of their major naval installations, but it’s not easy to recruit the right people.”

  “Your vetting standards for Arab speakers are too tough,” Puckett said. “You’re tossing out the baby with the bathwater.”

  “We’ve been burned before, Admiral,” Adkins observed dryly. “But for now the situation is what it is.”

  Puckett shook his head. “At least time is on our side. It’ll take them ten days, maybe longer, to get within striking range of the canal, or”—he glanced at the president—“our eastern seaboard.”

  “What can we do in the meantime?” Haynes asked.

  “Look for him in the open Atlantic, but that’ll be worse than finding a bug on a gnat’s ass. In the meantime we’ll set up a blockade off Limón Bay in case he’s trying for the canal again.”

  “What about our coast?” Berndt asked.

  Puckett shrugged, a bleak expression crossing his narrow features. “We can cover a few likely targets, but that’s about it,” he said. “The big problem will be his weapons load. If his boat has been retrofitted he could stand off a couple hundred klicks and fire the Russian Novator Club cruise missile. The weapon was designed as an antiship load, but it could do an appreciable amount of damage to the locks, or anything else, for that matter.”

  “How about nukes?” Adkins asked. It had been one of Rencke’s chief concerns.

  “There’re all sorts of nasty weapons that can be fired from a standard five-hundred-thirty-three-millimeter torpedo tube,” Puckett answered. “The Novator carries a four-hundred-fifty-kilogram payload. Usually high explosives. But that weapon can carry four hundred fifty kilos of just about anything.” He turned back to the president. “That’s up to the CIA, to find out what weapons the Libyans have got their hands on.”

  Haynes looked to Adkins.

  “We’re working on it, Mr. President,” Adkins said.

  “What’s your best guess?”

  Three days ago Rencke had voiced a vague concern that if Saddam Hussein had in actuality come up with nuclear weapons, either by Iraqi design and construction, or from the Russians, he might have spirited them out of the country before the U.S.-led invasion. If they had been Russian, then Putin would definitely have arranged for help getting them out of Iraq, and Libya was a possible destination.

  But Adkins was not ready to stick his neck out that far. Not for this or any other president.

  He shook his head. “We’re working on it,” he said.

  “Where’s McGarvey?” the president asked.

  Adkins glanced over at Puckett. This was one bit of information that no one in this room needed to know. “I’d rather not say, Mr. President,” Adkins replied. It was a matter of plausible deniability for the White House no matter what happened in Pakistan. The president and Berndt understood this.

  “If he can be recalled, do it,” the president instructed Adkins. He turned to Puckett. “I want our armed forces to find and kill that submarine before it reaches this side of the Atlantic, if that’s at all possible. In the meantime I’m giving Kirk McGarvey carte blanche for the possibilities we can’t foresee or handle. If he comes to you I want him given whatever he asks for.”

  It was obvious that Puckett wanted to object, but he nodded. “Of course, Mr. President.”

  EN ROUTE TO CIA HEADQUARTERS

  Crossing the Key Bridge to the Parkway, Adkins got on his encrypted phone to Otto Rencke. “Any word from Mac?”

  “None. But Gloria Ibenez followed him to Karachi.”

  “What?” Adkins demanded, coming half off his seat in the back of the armored Cadillac limousine.

  “She’s on her own, and it’s just as well she’s over there, because Mac could be heading into a trap.”

  “Tell me,” Adkins said, a tight knot forming in his stomach. He could think of any number of ways for this entire operation to go south in a heartbeat. No one would come out of it clean, and worst of all al-Quaida’s attack would have a much better-than-even chance of succeeding if Mac were to go down. A l
ot of Americans would lose their lives, and he wasn’t at all sure if the nation could handle another massive blow.

  Rencke hurriedly explained what was happening in Karachi, especially the part about al-Turabi’s GPS chip that hadn’t moved in a day and a half. “Gloria’s on her way to Fish Harbor to pull him out.”

  “What then?”

  “We’ll get them out of Pakistan,” Rencke said. “I’m working on that part now. But afterwards, I don’t know.”

  “The president wants him back to help stop Graham,” Adkins said. “The navy’s agreed to blockade Limón Bay, but I’ve got a very bad feeling that we’re missing something.”

  “Me too,” Rencke said, and he abruptly broke the connection.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  FISH HARBOR

  In the half hour that McGarvey had been watching from the shadows he’d learned that the compound was not deserted and that it was being seriously guarded. Whoever was inside had taken an extreme interest in security that went beyond the locked gate, and the razor-wire-topped wall.

  The front of the enclave ran for fifty or sixty meters along the paved street before it disappeared around the corner at the end of the block to the west, and around back halfway up the hill toward the railroad embankment to the east. Every fifteen or twenty meters a closed-circuit television camera was perched in front of the coils of razor wire. At the nearest corner, a pair of insulators, each the size of a liter bottle, led thick electrical wires to a steel mesh that covered the stuccoed wall. And at each corner, powerful spotlights, dark at the moment, were perched well above the wall on aluminum stanchions.

  Ten minutes ago, a pair of guards dressed in camos had appeared at the top of the wall, only their heads and shoulders visible as they headed away from each other to the opposite sides of the compound. When they reached the corners they turned and came back to meet at the gate. One of them said something, and the other one laughed.

  McGarvey raised his pistol and steadied his hand against the corner of the brick warehouse to lead the guard to the left. “Bang,” he said softly in the darkness. He switched aim to the other roof guard. “Bang.”

  The shots were at the extreme range for his pistol, but not impossible.

  The guards turned and marched away, but this time they disappeared around the corners, apparently to check the rear of the compound.

  A few minutes later they were back above the main gate, where they exchanged a few words, though McGarvey couldn’t make out what they were saying, and headed away again.

  After they were gone the main gate opened and a guard, also dressed in camos, a Kalashnikov slung muzzle-down over his shoulder, stepped out into the street and lit a cigarette.

  McGarvey had found a way inside, but only if the man at the gate didn’t go back inside before the two wall guards returned. If he could take out all three of them, he could get inside and find al-Turabi.

  After that it was anyone’s guess what might go down. But if bin Laden’s people didn’t know that the enemy had penetrated the wall and was inside the compound—even if it was for only a few minutes—the advantage would be McGarvey’s. He could do a lot of damage in that span of time.

  Almost as if on cue the two wall guards appeared at the corners and started toward the gate.

  McGarvey switched the safety catch to the off position and, steadying his arm against the corner of the building, took aim on the man to the east who would get to the gate first. But suddenly it all felt wrong. Some inner instinct of his was sending an insistent, nagging alarm bell at the back of his head.

  He looked up from his gun sight, and studied the situation at the end of the block—the entire situation, his attention lingering on the three men who would be in firing range in a few seconds.

  In a near perfect firing situation for one man coming to breach the walls.

  Too perfect.

  McGarvey held perfectly still, not moving a muscle as the wall guards approached the gate. Then he had it. The closed-circuit television cameras had all turned toward the street in front of the gate. Someone inside the compound was watching, waiting to send an army pouring out to spring the trap. A lone attacker wouldn’t have a chance of survival. It would be over in a matter of seconds.

  He eased back behind the building. Bin Laden’s people had known that he’d come to Karachi. And they must have guessed why he’d come. But they had no way of knowing that he would be here this evening, unless they’d discovered the GPS tracker in al-Turabi’s body.

  Rencke had warned that it was possible, though extremely unlikely, that bin Laden’s people would have a receiver sensitive enough to pick up the signal, or even have a suspicion that such a thing was possible.

  But it was even less likely in McGarvey’s estimation that there was a leak inside the CIA; a direct link somehow to bin Laden. There just weren’t that many people in the Building who knew that McGarvey had taken the nanotechnology to Camp Delta, and no reason for any of them to become traitors.

  There was no one with a grudge against the United States.

  Except for one possibility that McGarvey wanted to reject the instant it came into his head.

  He peered around the corner of the warehouse again. The wall guards had reached the gate, and they were evidently talking to the man on the street, because he was looking up at them.

  They should have turned by now and started their round along the wall. Unless they were waiting for the attack to come. Unless they’d been telephoned from the hotel that someone was coming.

  For a crazy instant in time Gloria Ibenez’s face flashed into his mind’s eye. He did not want to think that she had betrayed him, yet he found it next to impossible to believe that she could have fallen in love with him so soon and so completely unless it was a setup. She was from a completely different world, and he was old enough to be her father. It made no sense to him.

  He thought of Marta and Liese and Jacqueline, three women who had no business falling in love with him. Yet they had. Two of them had lost their lives because of their involvement with him, and the third—Liese Fuelm—had very nearly been killed in Switzerland just last year.

  All of them had been traitors to their countries, in one way or another, but none of them had betrayed him.

  Headlights flashed in the darkness at the end of the block. The guards on the wall and at the gate turned around, bringing their weapons up.

  Seconds later a dark van came around the corner and raced directly toward where McGarvey was crouched against the warehouse wall. He moved farther back into the shadows, and brought his pistol to bear on the rapidly approaching van.

  If bin Laden’s people had already spotted him, they might just as well have sent an attack to his rear, hoping to catch him in a cross fire. He had no place to go. His only option at this point was to take the van out of play and make it back to his car.

  He would go for the driver first, and then the engine.

  The van’s headlights briefly illuminated the corner where McGarvey was hiding. He slipped the Walther’s safety catch to the off position and started to pull the trigger, when the headlights suddenly went out, plunging the street back into darkness.

  For just a second McGarvey couldn’t make out who was behind the wheel, even though the van was less than ten meters away. But then the interior light came on for just a second, long enough for him to recognize that it was Gloria.

  She locked up the brakes and with squealing tires the van slid at an angle down the street.

  McGarvey stepped around the corner as the wall guards and the man on the street were taking aim at the van.

  “Kirk, it’s me!” Gloria shouted at him.

  Once again steadying his arm against the building, McGarvey began firing, first toward the wall guards, knocking one of them down with his second shot, and sending the second ducking out of sight.

  The guard on the street opened fire with his AK-47, the bullets ricocheting off the pavement as he walked his aim toward McGarvey’s position.<
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  Switching targets, McGarvey methodically fired three shots, the second and third catching the guard in the torso and sending him staggering back against the wall.

  He raised his sights in time to spot the second wall guard appear behind the razor wire, and he fired three more shots, sending the guard diving for safety again.

  The van was sideways in the street where it had screeched to a halt. He ran across to it and Gloria handed the Kalashnikov out the window to him. “I have to turn around,” she told him.

  McGarvey stuffed his pistol in his belt, stepped clear of the van, and sprayed the open gate and the wall above it, as Gloria did a rapid U-turn, smoke pouring off the tires.

  “Come on, Kirk!” Gloria shouted. “It’s a trap! They knew you were coming!”

  For a moment McGarvey didn’t want to believe it. If Gloria hadn’t betrayed him, who else in the Building had? Unless it was that pissant Weiss in Gitmo. But the ONI officer had no way of knowing about the nano-GPS tracker.

  The only other explanation was that they had once again underestimated the technical abilities of bin Laden as they had in September of 2001. The architects of the World Trade Center towers had never imagined the buildings collapsing because of a strike by airplanes. But al-Quaida’s engineers had.

  McGarvey emptied the AK-47’s magazine, tossed the weapon aside, and leaped into the back of the van. Gloria immediately floored the accelerator and they careened down the darkened street, sliding nearly out of control around the corner before anyone inside the compound could react.

  “Are we clear?” Gloria demanded.

  “We’re clear,” McGarvey told her. He shoved the service door shut, and climbed up front into the passenger seat.

  They crossed the main railroad line, and headed to the city’s center away from the slums. “Are you okay?” Gloria asked, glancing at McGarvey. Traffic was still very light, only the occasional delivery truck and odd car.

  “What are you doing down here?” McGarvey demanded.

  “Otto called your sat phone to warn you that you were probably walking into a trap. Al-Turabi’s GPS chip hasn’t moved in the last thirty-six hours. Not one meter. The bastard’s probably dead.”