by Oliver North
“And you're sure that this isn't a case of crossed wires at the Pentagon—that your message and mine might just be pertaining to the same thing?” asked Hart in his most plaintive tone.
“Nope, different Task Assignments,” said Katz emphatically. “Your orders say twelve UAVs of mixed type and payload capability for some Pentagon Special Unit and ‘Operation Huntsman.’ This one,” said Katz, waving a sheet of paper stamped “Top Secret” as the two men walked toward one of the hangars in the scorching heat, “this says all UAVs capable of carrying a very specific sensor package—and air-to-air and air-to-ground ordnance—are being requisitioned for Operation Stampede, and it's all for SOCOM.”
Hart looked disgusted, but he knew he was up against an impenetrable bureaucratic wall. He settled for, “Can I use your secure phone?”
Katz unlocked the door of a modular office—much like a mobile home—motioned the Marine lieutenant colonel into the air-conditioned space, and pointed to a secure voice instrument beside a desk in the cluttered office. “Make yourself at home,” said Katz, turning to leave. “I'll be back in a minute with a couple of bottles of cold water.”
Hart had arrived at El Mirage Flight Test Facility from the sprawling Marine Corps Base at Twenty-nine Palms, California, with the mission of acquiring Unmanned Aerial Vehicles—UAVs—for use by the Threat Mitigation Special Unit. Newman had gotten authority to use the small, remotely operated aircraft for intelligence gathering and for weapons delivery.
There wasn't much to see at El Mirage—several small hangars, a large structure with a sign that declared: “Assembly and Tech Support,” and a long runway across the dry salt lake. Off in the distance, through shimmering waves of heat, Hart could see some observation towers and radars—but little else. The whole place was run by the Aeronautical Systems division of San Diego-based General Atomics, the company that built the Predator UAV.
Newman had sent Hart to El Mirage with the mission of selecting ten of the latest, quietest versions of the Predator—equipped with a range of sensors—and with rails for Hellfire missiles. Both he and Hart had used Predators—and the smaller Marine Corps' Pioneer UAV in Iraq—and knew how valuable they could be in combat.
Hart had already arranged for the delivery of several dozen smaller UAVs—with names like Raven, Dragon Eye, Hunter, Shadow, and Gnat—but he also needed the Predators—not just for their longer range and loiter time, but because they were the smallest UAVs with a combat-proven capability for delivering lethal ordnance.
The number Hart dialed rang twice and a voice answered, “Staff Sergeant McKay. Can I help you?”
“This is Lieutenant Colonel Hart. Is General Newman there?”
“Yes, sir. Wait one.”
A moment later Hart heard Pete Newman's slightly garbled voice: “Go ahead, Dan, what's up?”
After Hart explained that their Predator order had been superceded, Newman said, “Here's what we're going to do. You identify four of 'em with the capabilities we need. Send me the registration numbers of the equipment we want and I'll call General Grisham. I'll see if he can get the Pentagon to relent. Meanwhile, see if you can order a few more of the Army ‘Hunter’ UAVs, equipped to fire Viper Strike munitions, and have all that stuff delivered to Twenty-nine Palms. We need to get our troops out there to start training with this gear ASAP. It looks like we're going to get committed a lot sooner than I expected.”
Hart had built a six-week training plan for the Special Unit Teams and wanted time to supervise and evaluate their preparations for the difficult and dangerous missions ahead. “How soon?” he asked with some concern.
Newman paused and then said, “Very soon.”
Hampton Inn
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Miami, FL
Friday, 26 October 2007
2105 Hours Local
Neither Rachel Newman nor Amos Skillings had thought it would take so long to drive the 1,258 miles to Key West, Florida. The exorbitant price of gasoline and diesel fuel had cut the number of cars and trucks on Interstate 95 to just those who had to travel—but clearly there were still a lot of people with a purpose on the road. Despite the reduced traffic volume, they had encountered numerous unforeseen delays.
Many gas stations were simply closed—with signs announcing: “No Gas.” They had taken to buying diesel fuel at truck stops—though they were often limited to no more than ten gallons at $7.50 or more a gallon.
Every hundred miles or so—and as they crossed each state border—there were roadblocks where heavily armed state police and National Guardsmen in full “battle rattle” checked licenses and vehicle registrations. At some checkpoints they had been forced to open the hood and all their doors and exit the Suburban while dogs “sniffed” the contents and officers with mirrors peered beneath the vehicle.
They had spent Wednesday night in Fayetteville, North Carolina, at Fort Bragg, in the Army guesthouse. Thursday morning, while Rachel and her children were eating breakfast, Skillings asked some of the soldiers for advice on alternative routes, and they recommended that it would be faster to use old U.S. Route 1, Route 301, or even local or state highways that more or less paralleled the interstate. Rachel agreed, and the sergeant major sent her husband a message on his D-DACT, informing him of the change in itinerary.
They managed to make 510 miles on Thursday—more than twice the distance they'd covered on Wednesday—and they stayed overnight at the Army guesthouse at Fort Stewart, outside Savannah, Georgia. While Rachel and the children frolicked in the swimming pool, Skillings found a gym and got in a good workout.
This morning they had gotten underway at 0830—right after Skillings had returned from the Post Exchange gas station proudly proclaiming that, “as a good Recon Marine,” he had made two important “finds”—twenty gallons of diesel fuel and a handful of new children's DVDs to entertain James and Lizzie on the portable player on the backseat.
After more than twelve hours on the road, they finally got back on the interstate on the outskirts of Miami. By the time they saw the sign for the Hampton Inn up ahead, everyone was ready to stop for the day.
Thankfully, there were two rooms left, and they checked in, also grateful that the motel clerk told them that a restaurant was still open across the street. “A lot of restaurants closed this week,” he said. “They've run out of supplies. I guess the delivery trucks aren't getting through fast enough.” He also gave them the name of a gas station that had diesel within a few blocks of the motel. Skillings made a mental note to get as much fuel as they could early in the morning.
By the time they finished eating and returned to the motel, it was nine o'clock. Young James asked if he could go swimming, but Rachel was too tired to go with him, so she said, “Not tonight, honey. It's getting late, and we have to get up early.”
“But, Mom, I slept in the car nearly all day.”
“All day? Really? It seemed to me that you were awake most of the time and teasing your sister. Besides, I didn't sleep in the car and I'm beat.”
“If it's all right with you, Mrs. Newman,” Skillings said while pushing the elevator button with the tip of his crutch, “I'm going to the health club next to the pool. I can keep an eye on James.”
“Yeah, Mom...besides, each of our rooms has two beds in 'em. You and Lizzie can go right to bed, and I'll stay in Sergeant Major Skillings's room like I did last night. That way I won't bother you and Lizzie when I get done swimming and get ready for bed.”
“That's OK with me, ma'am,” said Skillings. “I can put up with his snoring,” he added, grinning broadly at the boy.
“All right…” Rachel laughed. “I'm too tired to argue. But James, make sure you mind your manners, don't be a pest, and don't stay up too late.”
Jimmy ran to his mother's room to get his swimming trunks and his clothes for the next day, while Skillings changed into a sweatshirt and an old pair of Recon swim trunks. For the next thirty minutes the boy swam while Skillings worked
out intensively with weights and a rowing machine, all the while favoring his injured left ankle. Ordinarily he'd have gone for a jog or used the treadmill, but the crutches had forced him into a different routine.
As he exercised, Skillings alternated his attention between James, swimming in the pool on the other side of the glass partition, and the wall-mounted television set tuned to the evening news. Several of the stories dealt with problems caused by shortages, looting, and mass flight from America's largest cities. Other reports focused on the worsening crisis in the Middle East and terrorists threatening to use nuclear weapons against the U.S.
Tiring of the bad news before exhausting his body, Skillings grabbed his crutches, hobbled out to the swimming pool, loosened the Velcro straps, took off the removable cast, and slipped into the water. As he flexed his damaged ankle, Jimmy swam up and stood beside him.
“How many laps?” Skillings asked him.
“I don't know…I didn't keep count,” the boy replied, out of breath.
“Sounds like your daddy. He just keeps going and going—until his body says, ‘That's enough for now, man.’ I've never known him to count laps either—whether it's when he swims, or when he runs. His body knows when it's time to quit. Trouble is, he doesn't know when to quit. The man never gives up.”
“Yeah, my mom kids him a lot. She calls him ‘Gung Ho Newman’ when he's like that,” Jimmy said. “Sometimes I don't know if she's serious or kidding, y'know, Sergeant Major?”
Skillings grinned. “A lot of Marines get accused of being ‘gung ho,’” he said self-consciously. Then he reached over and tousled the boy's hair. “And by the way—my friends call me Amos. I know your folks have taught you how to be polite to grown-ups, but I'd like it if you and your sister called me Amos...after all, you guys are family.”
“I wish we were family,” Jimmy said. “I wish my dad was more like you.”
“What do you mean?” Skillings asked.
“Well…you take time to understand me. Like when Mom was too tired to let me go swimming, you let me come with you. You're always looking out for me—you made sure I got a little extra to eat yesterday...you let me ride up front with you while you were driving…and you listen to me when I talk to you—I wish my dad was more like you.”
“Whoa…wait a minute, son,” Skillings said. “What makes you think that your dad isn't interested in you? He is. I know, because he's always talking about you and your sister. When we're away on duty, he can't wait to get back to you guys.”
“I don't think that's really true, sir. Even when he's home, my dad doesn't take much interest in me, or ask about the things I like. For instance, he never comes to see me play basketball. And when I ran the one-hundred-yard-dash in track last year, I broke the school record, but he wasn't there,” the boy said with a heavy sigh.
“I'm sure that if you put your mind to it, you'll be able to think of some times that he was there to see you play…”
“Not many.”
“Well, son,” Skillings said, “it's tough to understand, but your daddy is a very special man. And special men like him have to be shared. My own daddy was a lot like that. Y'see, my daddy was a preacher. He was a minister of a Baptist church in Alabama. When I was a boy, it seemed to me that I felt left out of his life, just like you. But when I was twelve—”
“—my age,” Jimmy interjected, adding, “in a few weeks.”
Skillings nodded, and then continued, “When I was twelve, my mom told me, ‘Amos, you and your sister and I have a very special man. God has called him to His work. It's not that he doesn't want to make time for us or hurt us. It's just that God only gave us twenty-four hours in the day to do what needs to be done. And because he's doing God's work, God gives us an extra measure of grace to help us when Daddy isn't around.’”
The boy thought for a moment, then said, “Yeah, but my dad isn't doing God's work like your father did; he's just a Marine.”
Skillings smiled as the boy realized that what he had just said sounded like an insult. “Well now,” said the sergeant major, “let's think about that for a moment. It may be hard to see from your perspective, but there's a lot of God's work that's done every day by people like your dad who serve their country.”
“How?” asked James.
“The whole message of the New Testament is about the sacrifice that was made for us—even though we didn't deserve it. Every day, just by serving, soldiers, sailors, airmen, and Marines make sacrifices for each other—for their families—even for people they don't know. They are away from people they love—and very often in harm's way. I've been with your dad and heard him pray for you and your mother and your sister—even though he was the one in great danger. The Marine Corps calls your dad a ‘hero’ and has given him medals for courage, bravery, and leadership in combat, and for being wounded—but they don't give out citations for the most important quality your dad possesses.”
“What's that?” said the boy, truly enthralled. He had never heard anyone talk about his father this way before.
“He's faithful,” said Skillings, looking straight at James. “He would have a hard time saying it, but he's faithful because he loves the Lord, he loves you and your mom and your sister—and me—and his country—and he's willing to die for us. He doesn't do what he does for himself, his own promotion or advancement—he does it for others. That takes a very special kind of unselfish purity—and your dad has it.”
“How do you know?” asked James.
“Well, I've known him a lot longer than you have,” said Skillings with a smile. Then realizing how late it was getting, he added, “I tell you what, I know some stories about your dad that I bet you don't know. Tomorrow, while we're driving, I'll tell you some of them. We'll have another man-to-man talk like this.”
USS San Juan—SSN 751
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Vic 0°11 W; 36°16 N
Mediterranean Sea
Saturday, 27 October 2007
0350 Hours Local
The crewmembers of the USS San Juan, SSN 751, like all sailors assigned to Los Angeles class nuclear submarines, were used to getting underway in a hurry—but this had been something of a record. Just forty hours ago the “attack boat” had been on a routine port visit in Cartegena, Spain, when the communications officer awakened the skipper with a Top Secret, Flash message from Submarine Forces Atlantic. The terse orders detached the San Juan from the Enterprise Carrier Battle Group and placed the vessel under the direct operational control of Headquarters, 6th Fleet in Naples, Italy. The message went on to inform that a SEAL team would be flown to the USS Enterprise from Rota, Spain, and directed the submarine to rendezvous with the carrier off the Spanish coast, take the team aboard, and “carry out such other missions as may be directed by the National Command Authority.” The San Juan had gotten underway with her full complement of 129 officers and men, less than an hour after the message was received.
Now, the overcrowded submarine was creeping at three knots at a depth of fifty feet, her periscope barely making ripples on the surface of the Mediterranean. Two thousand yards off her bow were two large vessels—apparently tied alongside each other and clearly silhouetted against the lights of Palma, Majorca, five miles to the west.
Peering through the thermal lens on the periscope, Capt. Travis Woods said, “Lieutenant Commander Carter, here, take a look. Those two vessels dead ahead certainly look like your targets.”
Carter, the SEAL team commander was already clad in a black wet suit, and he stepped up to the viewing reticle on the periscope. Two days ago he had been training with his team at Dam Neck, Virginia. He and his men had been given three hours' notice to grab their “takedown gear” and inflatable boats and board a USAF C-17 at Oceana Naval Air Station. When they disembarked at Rota, a Navy captain from the Fleet Intelligence Center in Naples had met them and explained their mission.
An unnamed member of Spain's national intelligence service, DINA, had informed the C
IA that two of the missing royal Saudi “yachts” were being repainted in a small shipyard in Palma, Majorca. Satellite imagery and high-altitude photo recon missions flown by aircraft from the Enterprise had confirmed the ships' locations. Navy P-3s out of Rota had been ordered to shadow the vessels if they left port. Carter's SEAL team was to seize the Saudi boats and capture as many of the crewmen aboard as possible. He was then to sail the two vessels east into international waters so that a four-man Nuclear Incident Tiger Team could be lowered by helo-hoist onto the captured ships to disarm any nuclear weapons. He'd also been told, “Take as many prisoners as possible and hold them for interrogation.”
It had taken the C-2 “COD” two flights to move Carter's team and their gear from Rota to the Enterprise. The small-boat transfer at sea from the carrier to the San Juan had been an adventure in seamanship—especially the part where his SEALs had to scramble up the wet, sloping side of the submarine from a pitching launch. By the time they had hauled their rubber boats and tactical gear through the sub's partially opened torpedo loading hatch, they were exhausted.
Now, as Carter stared at the shapes through the periscope and occasionally glanced down at a set of photos in his hand, Captain Woods checked for any electronic emissions coming from the two vessels dead ahead. “The scanner isn't picking up any radar from either boat,” he said.
Carter grunted, “Good. Maybe they're all asleep.” Finally he said to the captain, “Well, they certainly look like the shapes of the Nile Princess and the Jarad Jal. They seem to be pretty much identical though I can't tell the paint scheme or make out the names; can you?”
The skipper stepped back up to the viewing reticle and after flipping several switches on the periscope handles said, “The one on the left is Ocean Queen and the one on the right is…Sweet Wanderer.”