The Assassins

by Oliver North

  “Or on the twenty-ninth day of any month, for example, where the two integers add up to eleven, or on a date such as 3 Jan 2007—which can be written ‘03/01/07’—all of which adds up to eleven,” said Collins.

  “So tomorrow morning,” Goode said, “when I'm at that meeting in the White House Situation Room and the President asks when to expect the next attack in this jihad, I should tell him that it is likely to happen next Monday, on the twenty-ninth of this month?”

  Collins looked him dead in the eye and said without a moment's hesitation: “No, sir. The twenty-ninth is a possibility. But this probability analysis indicates that the most likely date for the next major attack by Islamic radicals is the eleventh of next month—or eleven-eleven.”

  “And do we dare hazard a guess where it might occur?” asked Goode.

  There was a moment of silence, then Deming said, “A place with eleven letters...”

  Collins finished the thought, “… like New York City.”

  Newman Residence

  ________________________________________

  Foxhall Road, Washington, DC

  Wednesday, 24 October 2007

  0630 Hours Local

  As usual, Peter Newman began the day early. He rose from bed at 0500, put on his PT gear, slipped quietly out of the house, and ran five miles in the cool, clear darkness before returning home. He placed a load of luggage in the old Suburban, then went inside to take a shower and shave. By the time he was dressed, dawn was breaking and Rachel, Sgt. Maj. Amos Skillings, and the children had eaten breakfast and cleared the table. As she was putting their dirty dishes in the dishwasher, she playfully told her husband, “When you finish eating, General, you can put your dishes in and press the little button to turn it on. We're all confident that you can handle this assignment.”

  To the children's delight, Skillings had spent the night in the family's guestroom. Now he was trying to figure out how to carry his overnight bag out to the Suburban sitting in the driveway, while still balancing on his crutches. Newman called out to him, “Sergeant Major! Leave that baggage alone. That's an order.”

  Skillings looked up, rolled his eyes, and smiled. He said, “Aye aye, sir,” and put the duffel bag down.

  “Amos,” Newman said to him gently, “please…you can't do the things you'd normally do. Rachel and the kids can carry their own bags. I helped her pack so that she could lift each of them. I mean it…no lifting. I want that foot of yours to heal, so follow the doc's orders—don't put your weight on it, and don't try to carry anything while you're on crutches.”

  The big man smiled broadly as young James picked up the sergeant major's duffle bag and half carried, half dragged it outside to the waiting Suburban, and then came back inside for his sister's backpack.

  As Newman walked his wife and children out to the Suburban he said, “Honey, are you all set for the road? You've got some cash…gas tank's filled?”

  “Are you losing it, my graying general?” she asked. “You don't remember filling the gas tank last night and going to the ATM for me?”

  They both laughed. “I guess I'm a little preoccupied,” he admitted. “Got your cell phone…and it's charged?”

  “Yes, Father,” she said, “and I've pinned my name on my mittens.”

  “All right,” he laughed. “I get the point.”

  Newman turned serious when he looked at Skillings. “Take good care of them for me, Sergeant Major. I don't know what I'd be doing if it weren't for you.”

  “General, you've got more than enough on your plate,” Skillings replied. “Don't worry about us. We're going to take it easy all the way down I-95 to Miami and then out Route 1 to the Keys. Mrs. Newman and I talked it over at breakfast, and we're going to spell each other at the wheel. Ordinarily I'd drive right through, but she said you wanted to break up the trip.”

  “Yeah, it's a lot better to sleep in a motel than the back of a car. I'm just concerned that even with a DOD ration card, there may not be fuel available in some places. There isn't likely to be much traffic with gas prices the way they are, but things aren't the way they are supposed to be out there.”

  “Well, I think we can handle whatever problems come up,” said Skillings, raising his sweater so that Newman could see the H&K .45 ACP Mk 23, Mod 0 pistol—the standard offensive handgun used by SOCOM—hanging from a shoulder holster.

  Newman nodded and Skillings continued, “I have my D-DACT with me so you can see precisely where we are by our GPS plot—right down to a ten-digit grid coordinate. The main thing, sir, is not to worry. I'm like the insurance company—they're in good hands.”

  “That I know, Amos.”

  “Well, you're in good hands too, sir. While you were running this morning, Mrs. Newman prayed before breakfast, and her words were, ‘Lord, keep him safe and in Your hands.’”

  As Sergeant Major Skillings hoisted himself into the front passenger seat, Peter put Lizzie in her seat, checked James's seat belt, kissed both children, and came to his wife's open window on the driver's side of the big SUV. They kissed briefly and he said, “Godspeed, and keep you all safe, honey.”

  Rachel, perched in the high vehicle, looked at her husband and said, “You too, Peter. Thank you for arranging to have Amos accompany us. Now do me one last favor…”

  “What's that?”

  “Don't do anything heroic while we're away,” she said with a smile.

  “I promise, I'll see to it that I'm bored to tears.”

  Rachel nodded, said, “Good,” and the big diesel belched black smoke as it clattered to life.

  Newman watched them pull out of the driveway and head toward Foxhall Road. As he turned toward the house to lock up, the cell phone on his belt intruded on his thoughts. He glanced at the tiny screen that said “Unidentified Caller,” shrugged, pressed the green button on the touchpad and said, “Newman…”

  “General, so good of you to take my call so early in the morning. I hope I'm not interrupting something,” said a voice coated with southern syrup.

  “No problem,” said the Marine. “Who is this?”

  “Oh, ah am so sah-ry for bein' so rude,” drawled the voice. “This is Senator James Waggoner. Do you have a moment?”

  Newman had met the Chairman of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence only once—while accompanying DHS Secretary Sarah Dornin when she testified before the committee. Now he recognized the southern twang.

  “Yes, Mr. Chairman, but before you tell me why you called, a quick reminder—this is a nonsecure cell phone.”

  “That's no problem, son, this here is a social call,” replied the senator. “Ah know y'all were given seven exciting opportunities to serve our country yesterday afternoon, and ah just want to make sure y'all have your priorities straight as to which of those seven problems needs to be handled first.”

  Newman was instantly alarmed. He had no doubt that Waggoner was referring to the list of seven terrorists who had been condemned to death by the Threat Mitigation Commission on Tuesday afternoon. Not only was this fact supposed to be a closely guarded secret—but so too was his identity as the head of the Special Unit. Somehow, a serious security breach had already occurred.

  “Well, Senator,” Newman started to reply, “that's just not something I can talk—”

  “Now listen here, Brigadier General Newman,” Waggoner interrupted—the southern charm suddenly gone, “I don't have time for any nonsense here. Your number-one priority has to be the fourth one on that list. I'm sure you know that I also serve on the Armed Forces Committee that has to consent to every military promotion.”

  Newman let the reference to military promotions—and undoubtedly a threat for his own future promotion—slide by. He was trying to recall the list of seven men sentenced to death that he had handed to Lt. Col. Dan Hart the previous afternoon. The fourth name on the list stood out in his memory because it seemed so anomalous. Six of the seven were Middle Eastern terrorists. But the fourth person was from Nigeria: Samuel Mubassa.<
br />
  “Be assured, Senator, there won't be any ‘nonsense’ as you put it. I will also—”

  “Good,” interrupted Waggoner again. “Ah just knew y'all would do the right thing, General. Thank you for your time. Good day.”

  The line went dead and Newman slid the phone back into its holster, concerned about the leaked information of the list and his role with the Commission. As he walked up the steps it occurred to him that he had already broken the promise he had made to his wife just minutes ago.

  Situation Room

  ________________________________________

  The White House, Washington, DC

  Wednesday, 24 October 2007

  0900 Hours Local

  The President arrived precisely on time and began the Crisis Team meeting by turning to his Director of National Intelligence and saying, “What's the latest?”

  Perry Straw cleared his throat and began, “At our Monday afternoon meeting you directed us to analyze the threat from the Islamic Brotherhood on that tape aired by Al Jazeera. We have identified the individual on the tape as Sheikh Abu Bakr al Fawaz—a radical Wahhabi cleric and so-called scholar. He was last known to be in Mecca—though that was several months ago.”

  “So the bottom line is that we don't know where he is now?” asked the President.

  “No, sir,” replied the DNI.

  The President grimaced, nodded his head, and said, “Look, what's most important is the claim by this ‘Islamic Brotherhood’ that they are going to start detonating nuclear weapons here. We've had to close the exchanges and banks again. According to the report I got from Commerce yesterday, 40 percent of our inner-city businesses are shut down. Last night in downtown Detroit, every commercial establishment in a fiveblock area was looted—then burned. The Justice Department says that ‘Blue Flu’ is becoming endemic. According to DHS, hospitals are reporting high absenteeism among emergency medical ‘first responders.’ Is this threat real, is what we've got to know.”

  Straw looked up from his briefing notes and responded almost formally, “The Office of National Intelligence continues to discount the likelihood that this Islamic Brotherhood group has nuclear weapons.”

  The President looked around the table and said, “Do we have agreement on that?”

  “No, sir, we don't,” said the Defense Secretary.

  “Dan, what does DOD say?”

  Powers, as usual speaking without the aid of notes, replied, “We are increasingly convinced that the Islamic Brotherhood is a front for Iranians intent on establishing a Caliphate in the Middle East.”

  “And you believe that the Iranians have more nuclear weapons?” asked the President.

  “Yes, sir,” said Powers. “And as a consequence of our work with the CIA Operations Directorate in support of military operations in Saudi Arabia, we think that we're closer to proving it.”

  “How?” said a clearly agitated Perry Straw.

  Powers ignored the question. Still speaking directly to the President, the SecDef said, “We've been working closely with Bill Goode, the Ops Deputy at Langley. I'd rather he summarized this for you, sir.”

  The President turned to Goode, who was sitting behind General Grisham, and said, “Bill?”

  Goode arose from his chair and said, “Mr. President, I'll make this very brief and I would ask everyone here to please take no notes. First, we have strong evidence that Iranians have acquired Soviet-era nuclear weapons. Second, we have believable interrogation reports that several hundred former or current members of the Russian intelligence service are involved with helping the Iranians. Third, the Iranians are likely—as Secretary Powers just said—to be using this ‘Islamic Brotherhood’ as a cover for their own activities. Fourth, the Iranians—operating as the Islamic Brotherhood—intend to use nuclear weapons against us, and the weapons are to be delivered to the United States in vessels and aircraft that the Iranians' mercenaries have seized from the Saudi royal family. And fifth, the most likely timing for a major attack is November eleventh.”

  The room was totally silent as Goode sat down.

  After a moment of silence the President turned back to the SecDef and said, “Dan, is this an assessment that you accept?”

  “Yes, sir,” Powers responded. “We've now got every available intelligence asset and Special Ops team that we can spare from all of the services looking for these boats and aircraft. We've got the Navy and Coast Guard on alert to check vessels that meet the specs of the Saudi yachts that were stolen. We've got our satellites checking for IFF transponders that fit the frequency ID and tail numbers of the aircraft that are missing. They might repaint the planes, but switching out IFF transponders is a bit more problematic. It'll be like hunting needles in a haystack, but we're on it.”

  “Anything else?” the President asked.

  “Well, sir…” Powers said hesitantly.

  “Yes, Dan…what is it?”

  “Sir, I think that with the Iranians planning to use nuclear weapons against the United States, that we must consider initiating a preemptive strike against them. At a minimum, I think we have to take out their nuclear development center northeast of Tehran and their Shabaz missile facilities.”

  The President did not answer. His face was thoughtful, however, and those in the room could see that he was considering the proposal. After a moment's thought he said, “I don't know, Dan. It might be best if we quietly encouraged the Israelis to do it—like they did when they took out the Iraqi nuclear weapons facility at Osirik in 1981.”

  “Mr. President, if I may respond…” the Secretary of State interjected.

  “Go ahead, Helen.”

  “I do not believe that a preemptive strike on Iran would be wise. If you thought the opposition to our going into Iraq was negative, wait 'til you see the world's reaction to bombing Tehran. I'm not sure that we could do it without getting a retaliatory response from Korea—or even Russia, China—maybe even Pakistan.”

  The President made his decision, “Dan, give me some other military options that stop short of a direct attack on Iran. And the rest of you, please have your options to me by tomorrow morning. We'll meet again at nine, unless the situation gets out of control.”

  NEEDLES

  AND HAYSTACKS

  ___________________________________________________

  ___________________________________________________

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Lourdes Signals Intelligence Facility

  ________________________________________

  Bejucal, Cuba

  Thursday, 25 October 2007

  0720 Hours Local

  Please forgive the disturbance, Comrade General,” said Mikhail Vushneshko, garbed in the “tropical field uniform” of the Russian Military Intelligence service as Dimitri Komulakov opened the door to his quarters.

  Despite his fatigue from being up most of the night, Komulakov smiled at hearing himself addressed by the word comrade—a term no longer in use in the “new” Russian military. But he replied, “Please come in, Mikhail, you are, after all, my host here on this island paradise.”

  “Ah yes, General,” replied Vushneshko, “I may be the ‘commanding officer’ of this Listening Post, but you, sir, are our guest of honor. I would not want Moscow to think I was not providing appropriate hospitality.”

  “You and your contingent have been most generous—and I shall be sure that our superiors are aware of our appreciation,” Komulakov replied, motioning the younger man into the room and closing the door. “I hope that the occasion of your early morning visit is not a problem we have created for you.”

  “Not at all,” said Vushneshko. “We have a few more mouths to feed, and we're using a bit more water for drinking and bathing, but that is not what brings me here. I would not disturb you except that when you arrived here you asked me to notify you if our systems intercepted any American communications traffic that might indicate some awareness of your mission.”

  “Yes, that's true,” said Komul
akov. “We're of course picking up their commercial radio and television broadcasts from the equipment we brought with us. But I thought that any of their encrypted military and government communications picked up by your antennas were automatically shipped directly to Centre for decryption and translation.”

  “That is correct, General. But this was not an encrypted communication—it was a ‘nonsecure’ cell phone conversation, picked up by our service in Washington,” replied Vushneshko, handing Komulakov a single sheet of paper.

  “How was this intercepted—at our embassy?” asked the “retired” KGB general, putting on his reading glasses.

  “It doesn't say—but that's most likely, since it took twenty-four hours to get here. Normally we wouldn't get something like this unless it pertained to our normal mission here. Someone at Centre must have seen a keyword in it and sent it to me to pass directly to you.”

  Komulakov looked at the sheet, started reading, and asked, “Who is ‘DK Moray’?”

  Vushneshko smiled as he said, “That's our codeword for you.” The general resumed reading. Even though the interpreter had failed to capture proper American-English spelling or punctuation, Komulakov instantly realized why the transcript had been forwarded to him:

  FROM: MINZ SERVICE CTR

  TO: 501.7L

  INSTRUCTION: PASS TO DK MORAY IMMEDIATE

  ITEM: INTERCEPTED USCELTELCON, POTOMAC BASIN REGION

  A = INITIATOR: B = RECIPIENT TRANSCRIPT:

  B: “NEW MAN”

  A: “GENERAL SO GOOD OF YOU TWO TAKE MY CALL SO EARLY IN MOURNING. I HOP I'M NOT INTERPRETING SOMETHING”

  B: “NO PROBLEM. WHO THIDS”

  A: “OH, AH AM SO SORROW FOUR BIN SO RUDE. THIS IS SENATOR JAMES WAGGONER, DO YOU HAVE A MOMEN?”

  B: “YES, MR. CHAIRMAN, BUT BEE FOUR YOU TELL ME Y U CALLED, A CLICK REMINDER—THIS IS ANON SEA CURE CELL PHONE.”

  A: “THAT'S NO PROBLEM, SUN. THIS HERE IS A SOCIALIST CULL. AH NO YAWL WERE GIVEN SEVEN EXACTING OPPORTUNITIES TO SERVE YOU ARE COUNTRY YESTERDAY AFTER NOON AND I JUST WANT TO MAKE SHEAR YAWL HAVE YOUR PRIORITIES STRAIGHT AS TWO INCH OF THOSE SEVEN PROBLEMS NEEDS TO BE HANDLED FIRST.”