by Oliver North
“The Commission is going to want evidence that what you're telling me is true. What can you give me?”
“You have my word, Russell. That ought to be good enough. It'd be a sad day in the United States of America if a U.S. senator's word meant nothing. You go in there tomorrow and tell 'em to go after this Mubassa fellow. I'll supply you with what you need to support your case. Do you understand what I am asking of you, Russell?…I am only asking you for a small favor. Like the one I did for you back in '95.”
Bates had a bad taste in his mouth but blamed the whiskey. He nodded and reached for his jacket. It was time to leave. He hoped that it was still raining outside. Maybe it would help to clear his head.
MAKING A LIST
AND CHECKING IT TWICE
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CHAPTER TEN
Counter-terrorism Operations Center, CIA Headquarters
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Langley, VA
Monday, 22 October 2007
0545 Hours Local
William Goode glanced at his watch and reached for his cup of black coffee. But it was cold and he grimaced as he swallowed a large gulp. Except for a brief stop home for a shave and shower, and then a trip in the rain to the early Sunday morning service at McClean Bible Church, he had been here in the CT Ops Center or in his nearby office on the seventh floor of the CIA Headquarters building all weekend. He looked out the window as the dawn began to break over the Potomac. The rain had stopped and it promised to be a beautiful, crisp autumn day.
Goode looked down to his computer. The assignment that had kept him—and twenty of his best operations officers and analysts—busy for more than sixty hours was nearly completed.
The “tasking” had come on Friday at 1730—directly from the Vice President. He had called Goode personally, shortly after returning to the White House from his “undisclosed location” at Fort A. P. Hill. The instructions were blunt: “Prepare a list of the one hundred most dangerous terrorists at large in the world today who pose a threat to the United States, regardless of their nationality. Include all available biographical data and everything known or suspected about current location. Have nine copies of this report hand-carried to the White House Situation Room by 0730 on Monday morning.”
Goode made a final proofread through the 379 pages of information that he and his team had assembled, and he was fairly confident that their “product” would satisfy their “customer.” Though the Vice President didn't say so—and Goode hadn't asked—the old spy was fairly certain that this report, classified TOP SECRET/CODEWORD and innocuously entitled, “100 HVTs,” was to be used by the new Commission on Threat Mitigation.
He had been through no less than five drafts of the document in the last ten hours. Over the course of two and a half days, Goode and a handful of his key staff members had debated including this individual and excluding another. There had been some heated exchanges as the experts became advocates for and against certain terrorists. At one point his deputy, Kate Deming, had practically shouted, “Why are we limiting this to just a hundred? We probably have ‘the book’ on five thousand ‘jihadis’—and every one of them is a serious threat to the United States!”
Goode agreed—but patiently reminded them all of their assignment. He had even consulted his old MI6 friend, Joe Blackman—now back in London—regarding some of the names on their list. Now, as he prepared to move the cursor on his computer screen over the “Print” icon, he called Deming in for one last “sanity check.”
“Kate, we've all agreed that Dimitri Komulakov belongs on this list. But I want to be sure that we're as certain as possible about the ‘Current Location’ entry. Why did you put down ‘Cuba’? And what are our sources on this?”
Deming said, “I'll be right back,” and returned to Goode's office moments later carrying her laptop. Taking a seat in a wooden armchair, she rested the computer on her knees and her fingers flew over the keyboard. After a few dozen keystrokes she said, “Here it is,” and looked up at her boss.
“Go ahead,” he told her.
“Everything we have on Komulakov's location comes from MI6,” Deming said, reading from her computer screen. “We have their ‘gatewatcher’ report from the Caracas airport that he was last seen boarding a commercial flight to Havana in the company of four men of ‘Middle Eastern appearance.’ We have an MI6 defector report from Iraq that Komulakov was working with Ali Yunesi, the Director of Iranian intelligence, and we have the DGI defector that MI6 brought in who said that Castro was upset about a Russian KGB general at Lourdes. That's it.”
“We have no unilateral confirmation? Nothing from NSA? None of our own sources?” asked Goode.
“No on NSA and nothing from our own stations in Caracas or Havana—but you and I both know our HUMINT collection stinks. We don't have any NOCs down there, and it's hard to collect intelligence on terrorists at embassy cocktail parties. The MI6 stuff is the best we've got.”
“So why does Komulakov go to Cuba?” asked Goode. “Is he working with Castro—or was it just a diversion—perhaps a trip to throw us off the trail? And what about the four Middle Eastern males? Were they Iranians?”
Deming looked at her boss and said, “Well, we know that the Iranians have been forging ties to the Valdez regime in Caracas over the past several years. I'd have expected that if they were Iranians they would have gone off with some of the goons working for Valdez, but the MI6 report says they boarded the flight to Havana with Komulakov, and no one has seen or heard from any of 'em since. The only other possible linkage to Cuba is the demand in that missive from the Islamic Brotherhood that the U.S. release all the detainees at Guantanamo.”
Goode sat bolt upright in his chair as though he had been shocked by a cattle prod. “Could that be it? Is Komulakov helping the Iranians plan some kind of jailbreak from Guantanamo?”
“Hold on, boss,” said Deming. “That's way beyond the scope of this project. Let's get this report into the White House before we chase that rabbit.”
“You're right,” said Goode. “Print nine copies of the report the way it is. Have one of our couriers run them down to Registry and then deliver them to the White House Situation Room before 0730. After it's gone, tell the crew to head home and get some rest. And Kate, before you go, send a ‘tasker’ over to DIA. I want the names and backgrounds on every detainee currently held at Guantanamo.”
Presidential Commission Townhouse
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5 Jackson Place, Washington, DC
Monday, 22 October 2007
0700 Hours Local
With next to no traffic coming into the Capitol, it took Peter Newman less than fifteen minutes to drive his aging Ford Explorer from his townhouse, down Foxhall Road to Canal Drive and then east on the Whitehurst Freeway onto Pennsylvania Avenue. An armed sentry, wearing a blue baseball hat labeled “Uniformed Division, US Secret Service,” waved him through the checkpoint at 17th and Penn. As Newman stepped out of his vehicle and walked toward 5 Jackson Place, he could see the back of a tall, muscular African-American man on crutches making his way up the brick sidewalk. The man's left leg appeared to be in some kind of removable cast.
Newman shouted out, “Hey mister! This is a ‘No Cripple Zone!’ Move along!”
Sgt. Maj. Amos Skillings turned and said with a big smile, “Come a little closer and say that—so I can beat you with my crutch!” And then, feigning penitence he drew himself to attention and said, “Oh, sorry General, didn't recognize you in civilian clothes.”
The two men embraced on the sidewalk and then Newman said, admiring Skillings' pin-striped suit and regimental striped tie, “Pretty sharp duds for an old broken-down warrior. I had a bet with General Grisham that you'd be here before 0800 this morning.”
“Glad I could help you collect, General.”
“Did you have any
trouble getting in?”
“No, sir. Flew into Reagan National late last night in the middle of that miserable rainstorm and stayed at my sister's place in Alexandria. Thought that it was going to take me awhile to get here this morning, but there was no traffic at all. Does anyone still come to work in this city?”
“Fewer every day since the Saudi attack,” replied Newman grimly. “And it's not getting any better.”
By now the two men were in front of the townhouse, and Skillings said, “Nice place you have here, General. How long have you been in these facilities?”
“You mean in minutes or hours?” Newman said, grinning. “I was here for the first time Saturday afternoon and came by yesterday for a few minutes to talk to the guys from DCA and WHCA who are installing computers and communications equipment.”
“WA-CA? What's that?” asked Skillings quizzically. “I know DCA stands for Defense Communications Agency—but what's WA-CA stand for?”
Newman smiled and said, “Welcome to the acronym capital of the universe. It's W-H-C-A, the White House Communications Agency. Come on, I'll show you.”
As they went inside, Newman used his photo ID to swipe his code into the electronic door lock system, and it buzzed the two of them in. In the small lobby, Skillings shook hands with the Secret Service agent on duty in the entryway and then took a look at the nearby stairwell, and he asked, “Uh…how many floors do you have here?”
“Three,” replied Newman.
“And our offices?”
“On the top floor.”
Skillings grinned and said, “Great. I should've known.” Then using the crutches with something less than the graceful experience of someone who has used the supports before, he headed toward the stairs.
“It's on the top floor,” Newman repeated, “but we also have an elevator. Come this way.”
Skillings shrugged and said, “Aye aye, sir. They must have put the elevator in for you old folks. I was looking forward to the workout.”
“Yeah, right. You can carry me while you're at it,” Newman said good-naturedly.
When the elevator doors opened on the top floor, the two stepped into their new “Ops Center.” Two WHCA communications technicians in blue coveralls paused from wiring up computers and secure phones and said, “Good morning, sir. We'll be out of here in about half an hour.”
Newman introduced Sergeant Major Skillings, and the two men went back to their tasks. There was a steel security door to their right leading to the stairwell and three small glass-windowed offices on their left, facing the “bull pen.” Newman pointed to the three office spaces and said, “Yours is the one in the middle. Mine is the one on the left, and the one on the right is for Lieutenant Colonel Hart.”
“Lt. Col. Dan Hart, from 2nd Force Recon?” asked Skillings, puzzled.
“Yep,” replied Newman. “He'll be here tonight.”
“My, my, this is going to be an interesting assignment,” said Skillings. “What's in the back?”
“A secure conference room, complete with its own security system. It's been ‘Tempest hardened’ to prevent eavesdropping. Come on, I'll show you.”
As they walked to the rear of the building, Newman added, “It's tight but we can make it work. The only thing I don't like about this setup is that all our communications gear is in what used to be the basement where there was more room, and all we have room for here is our information technology—”
“Computer stuff,” Skillings said, nodding.
They arrived at another steel door and Newman punched in a number code, then stood in front of an innocuous smoked-glass plate, mounted at eye level on the wall next to the door. After a second or two the door unlocked with a quiet thunk.
Skillings said, “Iris scanner.”
“Right,” replied Newman as they walked into the sound-deadened space. “Have a seat there on the couch. Let me turn off the alarm system, and I'll be right with you.”
“Sir, General Grisham gave me a pretty detailed brief over the secure line before I left Lejeune. He said that we're on a fast track here. When are we expected to be operational?” Skillings asked.
“I don't know the answer to that, Sergeant Major,” Newman replied, leaning up against the conference room table. “The Commission that gives us our assignments has its first meeting at 0900 this morning. I was simply told to get this unit up and running as fast as possible.”
“Where are the troops going to be billeted?”
“For right now, they're going to be at Quantico—out at Camp Upshur. It's out of the way. There's decent billeting, messing, and plenty of space for training. The first forty-five arrive this afternoon on two C-130s from Lejeune and Fort Bragg. Tonight, we're supposed to get our first SEAL contingent in from Norfolk, and the Delta troopers come in tomorrow from Bragg. We're using the Air Station at Quantico instead of Andrews to keep it out of the news.”
“How are the teams set up?” Skillings asked.
“Eventually we're supposed to have a hundred men, fifteen assigned to each of six teams,” Newman replied.
“All special ops?”
“Uh-huh…You'll know most of the Force Recon guys. I've handpicked all the SEALs, D-Boys, and Rangers. The CIA has also detailed five women to us in case we have to run some ‘swallows’ against a ‘raven,’ as the KGB used to say.”
Skillings nodded and said, “Let's hope we don't. It's bad enough putting the ‘boys’ out on these ops. I've never felt right about putting the ‘girls’ out there with 'em.”
Newman shrugged and changed the subject. “How's your ankle?”
“Theoretically three weeks and I can put some weight on it,” Skillings replied. “But I heal quickly. I figure I'll be ready for anything in another ten days to two weeks.”
“Sure enough, Superman,” said Newman with a smile. “Look, we're not going to be doing anything with this outfit for at least two weeks. It will take us that long to sort out where we're going and how we're going to get there—much less what we're going to do when we get to where we're going. I'm going to need you then. I read the orthopedic surgeon's report. He said three weeks before you start therapy. Knowing you, you'll be stir-crazy after ten days. Just to keep you sane, I've got a different sort of assignment for you.”
“Whatever you need, General,” Skillings replied.
Newman paused and then continued. “The Secret Service is providing security for all the members of the Commission that meets here. They recommended a Personal Security Detail for Rachel and the kids at the house—but she's dead set against a PSD. Instead, she wants to go to the place her folks left her in the Florida Keys. I don't want her driving down there alone. As you've probably heard on the news, people are being held up on the highways just for the gas in their tanks. I just don't feel right about her driving herself and the kids all that way alone. I was wondering—”
“I'd be happy to,” Skillings said, finishing Newman's thought. “When would we leave, sir?”
Newman laughed. “Hey, let me at least ask you before you volunteer.”
“Yes sir, sorry sir.”
“Is that long a drive going to be too painful with that ankle?” said Newman, pointing to the cast.
“Hasn't been so far. I've driven around Lejeune for two days now. I'd be pleased to drive your family and watch over them for you, General.”
“Thank you, Amos,” said Newman, genuinely relieved. “That's a big burden off my shoulders. Rachel wants to leave in a day or two. The guys at the Pentagon were going to tail her all the way to Florida—and that would have driven Rachel nuts. I figure it should take you no more than five days at a reasonable pace—and by the time you get back, I'll have all your pencils sharpened.”
Skillings smiled and said, “What about fuel? That old Suburban of yours has got to be a gas guzzler.”
“Well, it's old—but it's also diesel—and we have a DOD-issued fuel ration card. If there's fuel to be had, we're allowed to buy it.”
“Ah yes,” s
aid Skillings, getting to his feet. “The benefits of military service. You tell Mrs. Newman I'll be ready when she is. Meanwhile, let's get some work done around here, General. What's the next thing that's supposed to be happening?”
Newman looked at his watch. It was 0735. “Well,” he said, “in about ten minutes a courier from the White House Situation Room is supposed to deliver the latest intelligence for use by the Commission members when they arrive for their 0900 meeting.”
“Intel on what?” asked Skillings as he headed back out the door toward the elevator.
“Apparently,” replied Newman as the elevator door opened, “it's the latest HVT listing.”
Threat Mitigation Commission
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Presidential Commission Townhouse
5 Jackson Place, Washington, DC
Monday, 22 October 2007
1010 Hours Local
The first meeting of the Presidential Commission on Threat Mitigation actually started precisely on time—something unusual in much of official Washington. All of the Commissioners had arrived early, each with their respective Secret Service escort. As they entered, the Chairman—Chief Justice Anthony Scironi—greeted them and then, in turn, introduced them to Brig. Gen. Peter Newman.
Each member of the panel was given a large, red notebook containing a copy of the document that William Goode had prepared over the weekend. The Chairman also admonished them: “This notebook and its contents may not leave this building. Each page is numbered and the document must be returned to Brigadier General Newman or one of his staff anytime you leave the premises. You may not discuss the contents or the material in this notebook with anyone outside this building.”