by Oliver North
The weary President had heard much of this before, and despite his respect for his Defense Secretary, he tried to short-circuit the diatribe: “Do you have some candidates, Dan?”
“Well, sir, I talked to George Grisham after you signed the bill. He says there is only one man he knows of who can handle this assignment, but he wants to talk to him first—before you or the Commission see him.”
“Why?” asked the Vice President. “If he's a serving officer, it shouldn't be a problem.”
“Yes, that's true, Mr. Vice President, but I agree with something else General Grisham said to me about this assignment,” Powers responded. “As you probably know, George didn't think this bill should become law either—but he's a good Marine and he's loyal. He said that the man we want for this job has to have nerves of steel, a heart full of compassion, and want no recognition.”
“Those are qualities I admire,” the President said. “Do you know who this man is, Dan?”
“Yes, sir, but without insulting anyone here, I think his name should be known only to a very small number of people—perhaps you, the Vice President, and the Committee Chairman.”
“And of course you and General Grisham,” said Jeb Stuart, showing his fatigue and seeing where this was heading.
At this the Secretary of State interjected, “I think Dan is right, Jeb. Whoever carries out the mission of this ‘Special Unit’ is going to be in grave jeopardy. The smaller the number of people who know who he is, the safer he and his family—if he has one—will be. Let's go.”
Stuart, realizing he had been petulant, shrugged his shoulders and said, “You're right. I don't need to know who it is. My apologies, Mr. Secretary … Mr. President, good night. I'll be here at seven in the morning.”
“Thank you, Helen … Jeb,” the President said as they gathered up their notes. “I appreciate your good advice and hard work on another difficult day.”
After the door closed behind Luce and Stuart, the President said to Powers, “Who is it? Do I know him?”
“You met him, Mr. President—right here in this office, shortly after the start of your first term—on 24 March 2001. He was a new Marine colonel then, and you awarded him the Navy Cross—his second—for a very sensitive mission in Iraq during your predecessor's term. Today he's a Brigadier General, assigned to a slot at DHS, as Sarah Dornin's Director of Operations.”
The President leaned back in his desk chair, looked up at the ceiling, and said, “I recall the event. If I remember correctly, it was a classified citation. What's his name?”
The SecDef handed the President a file he'd been carrying all evening and said, “This is his Officer's Qualification Record—his whole military history and background. His name is Peter John Newman.”
PREY
WITHOUT CEASING
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CHAPTER SIX
Filaya Petroleum Building
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14 Al-Aqsa Street
Riyadh, Saudi Arabia
Wednesday, 17 October 2007
0430 Hours Local
Former KGB colonel Nikolai Dubzhuko groaned as the discordant warble of the secure telephone dragged him out of the depths of sleep. He had gotten so used to his employer calling in the middle of the night that he'd taken to sleeping on a cot near the communication equipment in the conference room on the top floor of the Filaya Petroleum Building.
Dubzhuko had also concluded by now that his boss had to be running this whole operation from somewhere well west of Riyadh. There is no way that Comrade General Komulakov is losing this much sleep.He can't possibly be in Tehran or Moscow. The reprobate's probably on some Caribbean island, he thought as he stumbled in the darkness toward the incessant noise.
“This is Dubzhuko,” he said, trying to sound wide-awake.
Komulakov didn't bother to identify himself, but he didn't have to. Dubzhuko knew his voice, and besides—who else would be calling him on this phone? “What is your latest count on the mission objectives?” Komulakov asked without preamble.
“Which mission objectives?” Dubzhuko asked aloud, while thinking: Why do you always ask me such open-ended questions and keep me on the defensive? But then he clarified the question by further asking Komulakov, “Do you mean how many of the royal family have been located and dealt with? Or are you referring to how many of our rebellious mercenaries I have had to shoot?”
The inquiry was met by silence at the other end of the connection. “Did you hear my question?” Dubzhuko asked.
“Yes. But you weren't paying attention to my question. I wouldn't be calling you to ask about the troublemakers there—I already told you to deal with them, so I presume you did. I want to know about the primary mission.”
“That number has not changed since my last report six hours ago,” Dubzhuko said dully.
“Then there are still four ‘princelings’ and five female royal family members that are unaccounted for or under the protection of other nations.”
“That is correct,” Dubzhuko replied. “The two in New Zealand with their wives, the one in Italy with his wife and two daughters, and the prince studying at the ‘main adversary's’ Naval School.”
Komulakov did not react to Dubzhuko's use of the old KGB term for the United States. Instead he said, “Good. I will activate two backup teams to take care of the ones in Italy and Australia and send you instructions later today about what to do about them after I talk to our ‘client’ in Tehran. I am not sure what to do about the ‘princeling’ in the United States. He's the son of the Saudi Ambassador to Washington. Are you sure that his parents have been eliminated?”
“Yes,” replied Dubzhuko. “They tried to flee in their aircraft, but one of our ‘Muslim allies’ machine-gunned them as they were boarding. Unfortunately the plane burned as well. The fool had tracer bullets in his weapon when he fired.”
“Too bad,” said Komulakov solemnly. “We could have used the aircraft.” The former KGB general continued. “Our client wants us to make some minor alterations in our plan. The American television networks are saying that Washington has troops all ready to move into Saudi Arabia. Wait, let me read this to you.”
There was a pause while Komulakov consulted his notes. Dubzhuko, now fully awake, said nothing—but wondered if what he was about to hear was going to alter his contingency arrangements for escaping Riyadh if their plans went awry. Nikolai Dubzhuko was being paid 2.5 million Euros for this job—half of which was already in his account in the Caymans. But none of it would be his if he didn't survive the experience.
Finally Komulakov continued, “Here is the transcript from CNN just an hour ago: ‘American and British military units are poised to act preemptively and invade Saudi Arabia. According to highly placed sources in London and Washington, U.S. assassination squads will accompany conventional military units when they enter the country which the new government in Riyadh is calling “The Land of the Holy Prophet.” According to our sources, neither Washington nor London is going to wait for the UN to vote again on sending in a peacekeeping force. Apparently the “hawks” and influential oil interests in both capitals have convinced government decision makers that the anarchy in Saudi Arabia will only get worse by waiting on the UN, and they need to try and contain it now…' and the rest is irrelevant,” Komulakov said.
“Then they know of our plans?” said Dubzhuko.
“No. That's just their media talking. They hate America as much as you or I do. But there is very likely some truth in this report. There have been other stories about some new American assassination organization. Perhaps it is just propaganda, but I doubt it. As for preparations for a military invasion, I believe that part of it. That's all the cowboys in Washington know how to do.”
“Then what are we to do here?” asked an increasingly dubious Dubzhuko. “Do we just wait here for them to arrive and find out
that there is no such thing as an ‘Islamic Brotherhood’?”
“No, you fool,” responded Komulakov, harshly. “Listen! I have talked to our friends in Tehran, and they are going to go to the UN this morning and demand that any intervention in Saudi Arabia only be undertaken by an Islamic coalition. They are going to urge that Kuwait, UAE, Bahrain, Jordan, Oman, Egypt, Syria, and Yemen join them in such a venture,” Komulakov said.
Dubzhuko was incredulous. “And the UN will agree?”
Komulakov was becoming increasingly exasperated but also knew that Dubzhuko had to remain in place for several more weeks. Otherwise the Iranian plan would collapse—and he would not receive his full compensation.
The Russian general took a deep breath and continued patiently, “Nikolai Dubzhuko, I know you are tired. But please, comrade, listen carefully—the Iranians are simply trying to delay any American or British military intervention by going to the UN. That also means you're going to have to help from there as well. We need time to finish exterminating any of the other princelings so that our friends in Tehran get the time they need to create their new theocracy to rule from Riyadh.”
“Yes, General, but—”
Komulakov kept talking, ignoring the interruption, “As you know, the Iranian clerics are already working with several of the imams in Medina, Mecca, and Jeddah. But I need you to create more disorder to exacerbate problems for any use of American military force. That will give the Iranians the time they need.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“How much of that nuclear material that you removed from Iraq in 2003 did you bring with you?” Komulakov asked.
“Just six barrels. It's all we had room for on the truck from Syria. It's about five hundred kilos, but almost all of it is very low level.”
“That doesn't matter,” the general replied. “Send some of the men you have there in the compound out to get a large panel truck. Then, have them go out to one of the abandoned Saudi National Guard ammunition dumps and fill it up with ordnance—explosives, artillery rounds, bombs—whatever you can find. Intersperse among the ordnance the barrels of nuclear material. Wire the truck with a remote detonator that you can control from where you are. Do you understand me?”
Dubzhuko felt a knot forming in his stomach. While he knew that the “dirty bomb” would create limited damage, it would also leave a radiological hazard zone that could spread out to one or two miles in diameter from the site of the detonation, depending on wind direction and velocity.
“Where do you want it to go off?” he asked.
“For the most strategic effect, I think you park the truck as close as you can get it to the Diplomatic Quarter. That's well away and downwind from your location, and it will prompt an international backlash against any American intervention.”
SOCOM DET 2
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Marine Corps Air Station, New River, NC
Wednesday 17 October 2007
0030 Hours Local
For the Marines and Navy Medical Corpsmen of 1st Platoon, 2nd Force Reconnaissance Company, it had been another case of “hurry up and wait.” On Tuesday afternoon they had dutifully raced back to the Recon Battalion HQ at Onslow Point, packed their pre-staged “Fly Away” combat gear aboard trucks, and then convoyed to the Marine Corps Air Station, just across the New River from Camp Lejeune.
To any curious reporter, the ten seven-ton trucks and four Humvees rolling through Jacksonville, North Carolina, looked like any other military motorcade ferrying Marines back to Camp Geiger, beside the Air Station, from the “Mainside” area of Camp Lejeune. But a trained observer would have noted that the four desert-camouflaged “up armored” Humvees towing trailers all had rolls of concertina wire lashed to their hoods, were equipped with M-DACTs, and lacked the normal stateside “Tac Marks” on their doors and bumpers. And if they had followed the little convoy, they would have seen that it passed the main gate at Camp Geiger and rolled instead into the Marine Air Station.
By the time the sun was low on the horizon at 1830, the Marines had off-loaded all their equipment and the entire platoon was sequestered inside hangar 2 at the east end of the north-south runway. Though the ten trucks had long since departed, the four Humvees and trailers were lined up inside the hangar, ready to drive aboard the two USAF C-17s they had been told to expect.
At 1930, shortly after the last tinge of orange disappeared from the 158 western sky, another Humvee pulled up in front of the hangar. The Marine corporal posted on security near the hangar, just outside the pool of light from the sodium vapor lamps overhead, was prepared to challenge the two men who exited the vehicle when he recognized Lt. Col. Dan Hart and Sgt. Maj. Amos Skillings. Before the two men could enter the personnel portal built into the large sliding door, the corporal sprang to open the hatch. As he did so, he sounded off, “Attention on deck!”
As Hart and Skillings stepped through the entry, there was the sound of troops scrambling to their feet as they rose to stand silently beside their flak jackets, helmets, rucksacks, and weapons. “Stand at ease,” barked the Sergeant Major.
Captain Christopher stepped over his grounded gear, walked up to his commander, and said simply, “Sir!” It was both a salutation and a question.
“Gather the Marines around your Humvee, Andy,” the lieutenant colonel said, as Skillings unrolled a large chart and several aerial photographs and started taping them to the sides of the armored vehicles. As the captain assembled his troops, the agile lieutenant colonel bounded up the front bumper to stand on the hood of the Humvee so everyone in the unit could see and hear him.
“All right, listen up. I have an update on the situation and your mission. Effective immediately, you are re-designated as Marine Detachment Two, Special Operations Command. Your mission orders from this point on will come from SOCOM until such time as you are ‘chopped’ back to 2nd Force Recon. SOCOM has dispatched two Air Force C-17s here to transport you to Doha, Qatar, to carry out contingency operations in the CENTCOM Area of Operations. On the aircraft when they arrive will be two officers from the Nuclear Emergency Search Team out of Los Alamos, New Mexico. These NEST scientists are accompanying you with some specialized equipment to see if we can determine whether there are additional nuclear weapons in Saudi Arabia. Based on the radiation from the one that was cracked off Monday, the experts believe it was an old Soviet ‘tac nuke’ artillery round detonated at ground level. They have also concluded that the weapon wasn't fired from an artillery piece or delivered by an aircraft or rocket. The satellite imagery that Sergeant Major Skillings has with him shows truck tracks about a mile from ‘ground zero’ that are from the vehicle that they think probably delivered the nuke. Any questions so far?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Sergeant Holland, one of the team leaders. “How did they set it off?”
“Good question,” responded Hart. “And the answer is we don't know. It could have been by timer or a remote control device—either radio or wire. There are truck tracks headed to the site from the paved highway to the west and tracks headed back to the highway, so we're assuming that whoever did it intended to survive the experience and probably did. It's also likely that if this really was an old Soviet nuke, the people who did it were Russian—not local ‘jihadis’—since it's unlikely that the Russians were going to give up their PAL codes.”
Several of the Marines nodded their heads in agreement with this assessment. Hart continued, “A half hour ago I was told by the SOCOM planners that they intend to use one of your squads to assist in the evacuation of the American citizens currently barricaded inside the American embassy in Riyadh, one squad to see what can be learned from a covert visit to the ‘ground zero’ site—that's what the NEST scientists are for—and one squad with Captain Christopher's command group are the QRF.”
At this, some of the Marines started to jostle one another over which team would get which mission. Skillings, seeing the reaction, growled, “Knock it off!” and t
here was again silence.
Lieutenant Colonel Hart ignored the interruption and resumed his briefing. “The team going to the nuclear detonation area will be transported to and from by CH-53 from the 21st MEU deployed offshore in the Persian Gulf. Sergeant Major Skillings will accompany the team that goes to the site to look after the two scientists.
“The team going to the embassy will HALO or HAHO into the compound to get things organized for evacuation aboard the MEU's V-22 Osprey detachment. The MEU has also been ordered to provide QRF backup and whatever additional support you may need. Your radio frequencies, encryption instructions, and protocols are contained in the Comm Plan that Captain Christopher will have. Everybody going into southwest Saudi Arabia will wear full MOPP and carry chemical and radiological sensors because of the potential for contamination. We want you all coming home safe. Any other questions?”
While the Marines gathered around the maps, charts, and satellite images that Sergeant Major Skillings had taped to the Humvees and trailers, Lieutenant Colonel Hart jumped down off the slanted hood and took Captain Christopher aside, away from the hubbub, and said, “Andy, I know Amy is about to give birth anyday now. Lieutenant Weiner can handle this if you want to stay back until the baby is born.”
“No, sir,” Christopher replied. “Bob Weiner is a great XO, but these are my Marines. Amy can handle it. Her mom is coming down from Virginia, and our next-door neighbors are going to look after little Joshua.”
“Weren't you in Iraq when Josh was born?”
“Yes, sir. But I don't want these guys to do this mission without me. We've all worked too hard for too long getting ready for this kind of thing, and Lieutenant Weiner has only been with us for a month. Besides,” the captain said with a smile, “if I stay back, who's going to look after Sergeant Major Skillings?”
“OK,” Hart said, putting his hand on the younger officer's shoulder, “just don't get hurt over there. I don't want to have to tell Amy that something happened to you.”