by Oliver North
“Bingo!” said Carter. “Jarad Jal is Arabic for ‘Sweet Wanderer.’ These are our targets!”
By 0410 Captain Woods had maneuvered the San Juan until she was eight hundred yards due east and directly downwind of the two targets. He slowly brought her up until the dark hull of the submarine was dead stopped, barely above the surface of the Mediterranean. As soon as they got the word to “go,” Carter and his SEALs raced to silently drag their two inflatable boats up through the forward torpedo loading hatch and inflate each IBS from an air hose running from the conning tower.
Ten minutes later the two black rubber craft, carrying seven SEALs each, pushed away from the submarine. Carter had estimated that paddling into the wind it would take them a half hour to reach and board their objectives. His estimate was off by five minutes.
At 0455 Carter's rubber boat pulled up to the stern of the vessel on the right-hand side. Through his night vision goggles he could see the name: Sweet Wanderer. More importantly, he could also see that there was no one on deck. Using a rubber-dampered magnet, he “tethered” his IBS to the hull and then hurled a foam-padded grappling hook up over the rail, hearing nothing but a dull “thud” as it caught. Instantly, three more hooks were in the air—and fifteen seconds later all seven SEALs were on the deck of the ship, and fanning out, their 9x19 mm, H&K MPSD3s submachine guns at the ready.
Aboard the nearby Ocean Queen it went equally well. Master Chief Edmund Shultz and his boat team boarded their target vessel at the same time and manner as Carter's and encountered no one until they got to the bridge. There, Shultz startled a man whom he later described as a “military aged male of Middle Eastern appearance” and shot him dead with a single shot when the young man reached for a pistol in his belt. The slight “cough” from the integral sound suppressor of his MPSD3 didn't even carry across to the next vessel—just forty feet away—where Carter's boat team was having the same kind of success.
It was all over in less than fifteen minutes. Shortly after Shultz shouted across to his team commander, “All clear,” Carter sent a message to the submarine—and a long list of other recipients from Naples, Italy, to SOCO HQ in Tampa, Florida, to Washington, D.C.
BOTH TARGETS SECURED. TWO EN DEAD. EIGHT EN CAPTURED, THREE
WOUNDED. NO US CASUALTIES. NO NUKE WEAPS FOUND ABOARD.
Lieutenant Commander Carter's initial message was read with both euphoria and dismay at the Pentagon—joy that no SEALs had been hurt or killed but frustration that no nuclear weapons had been found on either vessel. When the NMCC Duty Officer called the SecDef on his secure line to report the results of the mission, it was about a half hour before midnight in Washington.
Despite the hour, Powers immediately responded, “Send the commander of the SEAL team and the San Juan an ‘atta boy’ from me, and have them sail the two ships into our side of the Naval Station at Rota, in broad daylight. I want to find out if anyone squawks.”
“Will do, sir. Anything else?”
“Yes,” replied the SecDef. “I want to find out the following, ASAP: First, what's the range of the ships with the fuel they have aboard? Second, has any space aboard either vessel been modified to perhaps hide a nuclear weapon at some point in the future? And third, do these boats have nav systems aboard that may have been preprogrammed? If so, to where? Call me back when we get the responses, no matter what time it is.”
Shortly before dawn in Washington, the NMCC Operations Duty Officer, Brig. Gen. Tom Simmons, called Powers on his secure phone again.
“Sorry to wake you, Mr. Secretary, but I have the answers to your questions from the SEAL team commander on one of the captured Saudi ships.”
“Go ahead,” said the SecDef.
Simmons read directly from the D-DACT message he had received from LCDR Carter: “One. Both vessels fully fueled. Estimated range is eighteen thousand miles. Two: Both vessels have recently had identical, watertight, 48'' x 40'' x 30'' lead-encased, stainless-steel boxes installed in their bilges. Lids for boxes with rubber ‘O’ rings were positioned beneath bilge plates. Boxes are empty. Three. Both vessels have dual, preprogrammable GPS navigation systems. Both vessels' nav systems were programmed for direct rhumb-line route to Caracas, Venezuela. New charts of Caracas harbor are in chart table. Four. New Info. One of the enemy casualties aboard claims he is Russian. He says his name is Felix Kuznetsov, that he is employed by a Filaya Oil Corporation and that his supervisor is an individual named Nikolai Dubzhuko. He denies any knowledge of vessel being stolen or anything about nuclear weapons and insists on being granted access to the nearest Russian diplomatic mission.”
“Did he say Caracas?” asked Powers when Simmons finished his report.
“Yes, sir, Caracas.”
“OK,” said Powers. “Make sure that message is passed to William Goode at the CIA right away.”
“Yes, sir,” said the general. “Anything else, sir?”
“Yes,” responded Powers. “Send that SEAL team commander another ‘well done’ from me—and when they make it into Rota—have the wounded terrorists treated and then ship 'em all to Gitmo.”
“The Russian too?” asked Simmons.
“Yep, the Russian too.”
Lourdes Signals Intelligence Facility
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Bejucal, Cuba
Saturday, 27 October 2007
0805 Hours Local
As soon as he picked up the phone call from Riyadh via the secure Murmansk-Moscow-Cuba link, Dimitri Komulakov could tell that Nikolai Dubzhuko was in a state of near panic. “General, I believe that two of our prize vessels are in trouble and may have been captured or perhaps even sunk,” Dubzhuko sputtered.
“What do you mean?” Komulakov asked, setting down his coffee cup. “When did you last hear from them?”
“They were supposed to check in at 0800 this morning our time—midnight your time. Neither ship placed that call, and all of our subsequent attempts to contact them have failed.”
“When was the last time that you talked with them?”
“We received a routine report at 2200 last night. Both of them had completed their work at the Palma shipyard and were going to head for the Gibraltar Straits this morning at sunrise. They reported clear skies and good weather. We checked a satellite weather image of the weather in the vicinity for the past twelve hours—there was nothing out of the ordinary. The ships simply disappeared, and there were no warnings at all,” Dubzhuko said.
“Were you able to track them using GPS and their transponders?”
“We tried that as soon as they didn't report in,” Dubzhuko replied. “But neither vessel's transponders show up anymore. They may have sunk.”
“If that was the case,” Komulakov snarled, “the Emergency Satellite Beacons—called EPRBs—on their lifeboats and automatic life rafts would have gone off and we would know about it.”
“We shall continue trying to contact them,” said Dubzhuko, trying not to incur the wrath of his employer.
“No, you fool! Stop trying to reach them! If the Americans took over the ships, and you try to call them, they will obviously trace the signals. Do not call them anymore. If it was some kind of anomaly—weather or atmospheric conditions—making it impossible for them to get through to you, they'll call back when they can,” Komulakov said. “Contact the other ships and aircraft and tell them I want every one of them to check in every four hours instead of twice a day. And tell them all to get to Caracas just as fast as possible. I think we need to move that aircraft with that special cargo sooner than expected.”
Operations Directorate, CIA HQ
________________________________________
Langley, VA
Saturday, 27 October 2007
0930 Hours Local
William Goode had arrived at his office shortly after dawn—and found the D-DACT message from Lieutenant Commander Carter and the cover note from Secretary Powers relayed by the NMCC shoved into a folder labeled “Overnight Cable
s.” After a none-too-gentle reminder to the Night Duty Officer that he was to be awakened for anything pertaining to the current crisis, he sat down and reread all of the reports from the SEAL operation. By now there were more than a dozen.
When he finished, Goode poured himself another cup of coffee and placed a secure call to Joseph Blackman of MI6. It took the SIS duty officer less than fifteen minutes to find the British spy, who rang Goode directly, greeting him with, “Good day, William. Working on Saturdays in the ‘colonies,’ are we? Not good for the golf game, I'm afraid.”
Goode smiled in spite of the fact that no one in either country's intelligence services had taken a day off since the Saudi crisis began and said, “I've given up the silly game, Joseph. Got tired of running around looking for that little white ball that just won't stay on the green carpet.”
“You didn't call me for tips on putting, old friend,” said Blackman, suddenly serious. “Did your Navy lads pick up anything useful from those pirated vessels they clipped last night? Nice piece of work, that.”
“A few things. Both vessels had apparently been modified to hide one or more nuclear weapons, but there were no nukes aboard either one.”
“Too bad about that,” Blackman replied, meaning it. “Did any of the pirates survive the experience to tell of buried treasures?”
“There are a couple of very interesting bits of information. According to the on-scene Navy commander, one of the thugs is a Russian who claims he works for Filaya Oil and that his boss is one Nikolai Dubzhuko. Sound familiar?”
“Well, that's very interesting,” said Blackman. “I just got off the phone with one of those bright young GCHQ-NSA youngsters over at Menwith Hill. He called to tell me that there was a noticeable big spike in HF and satellite voice and data traffic coming from the Filaya building in Riyadh—and then about an hour ago, the place went mute.”
Goode said, “And this means…”
“Don't know for certain,” responded Blackman. “There was apparently a big flurry of traffic starting shortly after your SEALs seized those boats off Palma, right up until an hour or so ago, and then it stopped—as though someone pulled the switch. But our boys in Jordan and our ‘stay behinds’ in Saudi Arabia say that there is still ‘noise’ coming from the Filaya building. They still believe that there is some kind of land line capability there that we just don't know about. It adds to my belief that one part of the command and control for the Islamic Brotherhood, or whatever they are, is set up there—in the Filaya facilities,” Blackman said.
“Hmm…interesting. The NRO satellite passes don't show much, and none of our ‘air breathers’ tell us anything except that there are people inside the building,” Goode said.
“Downtown Riyadh is obviously a very dangerous place,” Blackman admitted, “but the Aussies have offered to have some of their ‘local assets’ knock on the door to see who answers.”
“Well, that's mighty brave of 'em,” Goode replied, “but I'm not sure we want to take any action at the Filaya building until we know where the other end of the phone rings. What was that building used for in the past?”
“It was built in the '80s by the Russians, and they constructed it like a fortress. I believe they used it for one of their consulting firms—pipelines, oil, that sort of thing—as I recall. There's no record of it ever changing ownership, but since May 2005 it's been leased to this ‘Filaya’ group.”
“Does Komulakov have any connection to Filaya other than that trip you briefed me on when you were here in Washington a few days ago?” asked Goode.
“Not that we can confirm. The best connection seems to be this chap Nikolai Dubzhuko who runs everything there—and who apparently was mentioned again this morning by this Russian who was captured by your Navy SEAL on that pirated vessel. He and Komulakov worked together for years in the KGB.”
“I still think this thing is being masterminded by Komulakov,” said Goode emphatically. “My gut tells me that this guy Dubzhuko is his ‘operations chief,’ and that Komulakov is running this whole operation for the Iranians from somewhere else. He's too smart to be in Riyadh. Maybe he's in Tehran. Is there an undersea fiber-optic cable across the Persian Gulf between Saudi Arabia and Iran?”
“Yes,” replied Blackman. “It runs from Ad Dammam on the Saudi coast to Bandar-E Abbas, Iran. It was put in a few years ago, right after the Saudis authorized the Iranians to start commercial over-flights. And I think it connects Tehran and Riyadh.”
“Could the Russians have tapped into that fiber-optic cable?” asked Goode.
“It certainly isn't that hard to do,” replied Blackman.
“Well, if that's the case, I think I know of a way that we can turn off Dubzhuko's telephone service. I'll check it out and get back to you before 1800 your time. Thank you for your help, Joseph.”
After hanging up with Blackman, Goode called Gen. George Grisham—and found the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff at his desk. He got right to the point. “George, what do we have in the way of submarine assets in the Persian Gulf?”
Grisham was equally direct. “Why, Bill?” he asked. “I'm still smarting from coming up dry on those two pirated Saudi vessels last night.”
“General,” Goode replied, “we may not have found any nukes—but it was anything but dry. I need a sub to cut an undersea fiber-optic cable between Iran and Saudi Arabia.”
Grisham thought for a moment and then asked, “How quickly do we need this cable cut?”
“The sooner the better,” Goode answered. “Hours…days…certainly not weeks.”
“Well, Bill,” said Grisham with a sigh, “you get me the rationale for this, and I'll look into the availability of the Navy's ‘flying submarine.’ It's called the ASDS—shorthand for the Advanced SEAL Delivery System. It's a mini-submarine, sixty-five-feet long, manned by up to six Navy SEALs.”
“How quickly can we get one out to the Persian Gulf?” asked Goode.
“The ASDS can be carried in a C-5A or C-17 aircraft atop its specially designed tractor-trailer transport. We can certainly link it up with a sub at Diego Garcia—maybe even Qatar or Bahrain if we handle it all at night,” Grisham answered.
“Great!” answered Goode, with far more enthusiasm than Grisham was feeling. “I'll get the paperwork out of here this afternoon.”
“What else can I do for you, Bill?” asked Grisham, not wanting Goode to feel like he wasn't being supported.
“Well, you might want to get ready to dispatch some of your special ops teams to intercept the nuclear weapons where they will be loaded up for the attack on the United States,” said Goode, knowing that he was tantalizing his old friend.
There was a long pause before Grisham asked simply, “When and where?”
“When, I don't know yet,” Goode answered. “But the ‘where’ is Caracas.”
DARK
DOMAIN
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CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Office of the Director, FBI
________________________________________
Hoover Building, Washington, DC
Saturday, 27 October 2007
1155 Hours Local
Thank you all for joining me on this conference bridge, ”said FBI Director Bob Coffey into the speaker mounted beside his secure phone. On the call were twenty-one of his SACs—the Special Agents-in-Charge of the FBI's biggest field offices in the U.S. and overseas.
“I know we can do a lot by secure data-link, but I thought that under the circumstances it would be best if we could all brainstorm for a few minutes,” added the Director. “I trust you all read the most recent ‘CIA Threat-Warn’ indicating that the next most likely date for a major attack is Monday, 29 October—the day after tomorrow—and then again on November eleventh.”
Several voices said “affirmative” and “roger that.”
Coffey continued, “Well, there have been some re
cent developments that may bear on what the terrorists may be planning. Dave Mendez, in Mexico City, I want you to give us an update on what you have learned from your counterparts about that suspicious yacht and aircraft that the Mexican authorities impounded last night.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Mendez. “Both the vessel and the aircraft were seized by the Federales last night in Puerto Morelos—it's on the tip of the Yucatan Peninsula. The boat—it's a ship, really, 170 feet long and more than four hundred tons—had a fresh paint job and a new name: Desert Mirage. The aircraft is a Gulfstream Five. It was seized in a hangar where the insides had been stripped out—and a phony Mexican registration number had been painted on its tail. My liaison here says they traced the engine serials, and the aircraft was sold last year to Prince Al-Habib Rasul, the Saudi who was killed in Paris. They're still checking on the ship.”
Coffey then asked, “According to your initial report this morning, the Mexicans arrested five from the boat and three who were working on the aircraft. Will they allow us to extradite them to the U.S.?”
“No, sir,” Mendez said emphatically. “I went up the ‘Leg-Att’ chain to the Minister of Justice and the U.S. Ambassador went directly to the Foreign Ministry, and they told us to pound sand. The Mexicans told us that these eight thugs haven't broken any U.S. laws. When the ambassador told them that ‘conspiracy to commit an act of terrorism’ is a violation of our law, they said that they don't recognize our ‘Patriot Act’ and, even if they did, they won't extradite anyone to the U.S. who could face the death penalty.”
“Great neighbors,” said Coffey, the disgust evident in his voice. “Will they let you have access to them?”
“Not yet,” answered the FBI agent in Mexico City. “But my amigo in the MOJ has photos they took inside the ship and the plane—and apparently both had lead boxes installed just like the ones that were in those two ships that the SEALs took down last night in the Med.”