The Assassins

by Oliver North

  “Sir, in this morning's Washington Post, an anonymous Congressional source says that U.S. and British Special Forces have already captured more than half a dozen ships and airplanes headed for the United States with nuclear weapons aboard. Can you confirm or deny this report?”

  “No!” said the President bluntly.

  “No, what, sir?” persisted the young reporter.

  “I answered your question,” said the Chief Executive. “But let me remind all the anonymous sources out there—whoever they are—that this administration will pursue and prosecute any and all who violate the law by disclosing classified information.”

  “So you're saying it's true?”

  “I said nothing of the sort, John,” said the President, using the reporter's first name. “I simply stated a fact about those who break the law during this state of emergency—or anytime.”

  Now, another reporter tried a different tack on the same theme: “Mr. President, if there is a real nuclear threat, is your administration considering any mandatory evacuations like when a hurricane threatens the East Coast?”

  “Well, as everyone knows, we're already experiencing serious disruptions as a result of what's happened in Saudi Arabia. Many people have, for their own reasons, chosen to leave some of our biggest cities. The Department of Homeland Security is already administering over fourteen thousand shelters around the country—most of them in schools that have been closed for over two weeks now. We will continue to open more emergency shelters as the need arises—particularly as the weather gets colder. But I don't believe that the nation's interests will be well served by a government-directed dislocation of millions more of our citizens from their homes and places of work.”

  “Then what should people do?” asked the only woman reporter present.

  The President looked at her and said, “I know that these are difficult times. But I also know that we are a brave and resilient people. Rather than flee in the face of threats from those who hate us for who we are, I urge that the American people respond with courage, perseverance, and prayer. I know that all three work.”

  Then, as others shouted more questions to him, the President turned from the podium, made a small wave to the reporters, cameramen, and technicians, and said, “Thank you for your time this morning. God bless you and your families.” With that, he walked out of the room.

  Lourdes Signals Intelligence Facility

  ________________________________________

  Bejucal, Cuba

  Tuesday, 30 October 2007

  0955 Hours Local

  Dimitri Komulakov had watched nearly all of the President's impromptu press conference live, on the satellite TV in his command center, buried thirty meters deep in Cuban limestone. He had been half listening to the pirated signal of an American satellite broadcast while drafting a lengthy message to his employer in Tehran when the morning news was interrupted by the live feed from the White House.

  He watched the Q & A with the American President followed by several minutes of commentary and criticism from an obviously unprepared anchor in Atlanta. Komulakov quickly tired of the editorial and told one of his communications technicians, “Silence that noise, but make sure you record what's being said and any rebroadcasts. Get Riyadh on the secure link, now.” It was not a request. Less than a minute later, Colonel Dubzhuko was on the line.

  “Well, Nikolai,” began Komulakov, sounding remarkably calm, “we now know what happened to the missing Saudi ships and aircraft!”

  “We do?” said the former KGB officer in Riyadh.

  “They have been captured or sunk by the Americans and the British,” said the Russian general.

  “How do you know?” asked the stunned subordinate.

  “The American President as much as said so—just minutes ago. I saw it live on their television.”

  “But …” sputtered Dubzhuko, “...how do you know he is not lying?” The anxiety was evident in his voice.

  “I do not believe he was lying, Nikolai—and neither will our client,” said Komulakov, “and that means we may have some serious problems. How many ships and airplanes have failed to check in as required?”

  “When the last reports came in two hours ago, we received no signals from five of the vessels and three of the aircraft,” answered Dubzhuko.

  “And were all of them fitted to receive the weapons?”

  “Yes, as you directed, Comrade General,” responded Dubzhuko, attempting to deflect any criticism.

  “We must assume that at least some of these planes and boats have been captured intact—and that the American and British intelligence authorities have figured out what the lead-lined boxes and wiring are for,” said Komulakov. “I think we should also expect that some of our crews have been captured and are now being interrogated and telling all that they know.”

  “They may have captured some of our people, but nobody knows the full plan, General. For example, no one except our client, you, and I know that there were to be eleven ships and eleven aircraft equipped to carry the nuclear devices. And you and I are the only ones who know that we are being paid by Tehran.”

  “Hopefully that is correct, Nikolai, but everyone aboard knew that the aircraft and vessels were to be delivered to Caracas—and when. And all of our comrades—the Russians and Ukrainians—had identity papers showing that they worked for Filaya in Riyadh—and that you are their employer.”

  A sudden sense of dread suddenly enveloped the “retired” KGB colonel. Dubzhuko didn't even know for certain where his commander was, but the Americans could right now be targeting the Filaya compound where he was sitting. “What should we do?” asked Dubzhuko.

  Komulakov couldn't care less about what ultimately happened to his deputy—but he still needed him to finish the operation. He thought for a moment then said, “First, when is the aircraft with the nuclear devices due in Caracas?”

  “Tonight,” replied Dubzhuko.

  “Good,” answered the general. “And are the technicians already in place in Caracas?”

  “Two are in place in Venezuela and the other three are with the weapons on the plane. You have their identifiers and contact information in my last message,” answered the loyal but very concerned subordinate, who then added, “but what about me—and the rest of us here at the Filaya building?”

  “Stop worrying,” ordered Komulakov. “Ali Yunesi contracted us to convey eleven nuclear weapons to Venezuela—and the means of delivering them to American cities. Right now we have ten weapons on the way to Caracas—and we still have six captured Saudi ships and eight aircraft—plenty of backup—which is what we intended. The Iranians need not know that we are one weapon short. I have made arrangements to have another artillery warhead delivered to Iran from our stocks in the Ukraine for the Shabaz missile that they are so excited about. I am sending three more technicians with the PAL codes to install it for them. What else is there to be worried about?”

  “Worried about?” Dubzhuko practically shouted. “What about me?” he repeated. “If the Americans have figured out that this operation is being run from this building, they will surely target it!”

  “Calm down, Nikolai,” Komulakov said. “I have made alternative plans for you as well. We have another site in Riyadh, on Al Kadif Road. The sign on the gate is for ‘Persian Gulf Exports.’ It is somewhat smaller, but it is the tallest building in the neighborhood and, like the Filaya building, it is connected to the Iran-Saudi Arabia undersea fiber-optic cable.”

  “I remember the site, General,” replied Dubzhuko. “I was the one who leased it and installed our equipment, but it is not as secure as this installation—and the generators are not as large.”

  “It will have to suffice, Nikolai,” answered Komulakov. “Go over there and make sure it has not been taken over by our ‘Islamic allies’ and report back to me.”

  Hotel El Centro

  ________________________________________

  Downtown Caracas, Venezuela

  T
uesday, 30 October 2007

  1430 Hours Local

  By the time Newman arrived at his hotel, his shirt was once again soaked with perspiration. He had been out with “Eduardo” since dawn, reconnoitering places to carry out his dual missions: emplacing surveillance to detect nuclear weapons—and planning the “execution” of Samuel Mubassa—as directed by the Commission on Threat Mitigation. Either of the two assignments would be a handful for any Special Ops unit commander, but Newman was dealing with both.

  Now, as the fetid, smog-laden tropical air of Caracas neared the high-temperature point of the day, much of the activity on the streets had come to a halt as Venezuelans sought shade or air conditioning for their midday siesta. Because a “gringo” walking around on the streets at this time of day would be easier for the Venezuelan security services to track, Newman had told his two American colleagues, Army First Sergeant Roberto Nievos and Navy SEAL “Manny” Suazo, to meet him at the El Centro at 1430, to review their plans.

  As he turned the key and opened the door of his hotel room, Newman noticed that the tiny piece of toothpick that he had placed in the jamb, just above the bottom hinge, had been displaced. It did not surprise him. He expected that the enormous Valdez secret police operation would be going through his room in his absence. What did surprise him was the wiry frame of Nievos standing in the sitting room of the small suite with a finger pressed to his lips—a silent warning to say nothing.

  Newman entered, closed the door and only then did he notice Suazo, poised behind the door, ready to strike, had Newman been one of the Valdez security thugs. Nievos motioned Newman to come with him and then pointed up to the small chandelier over their heads. The Marine peered closely at the light fixture and then noticed the tiny, omni-directional microphone hidden within it. Nievos then handed Newman a handwritten note: “I swept the room. That's the only one I've found, but we should go out on the balcony to talk.”

  Newman nodded and the three men walked out onto the third-floor balcony. Once the door was closed, Nievos said quietly, “I ‘swept’ your room yesterday. That mike was not active, but it is now.”

  “I wonder if the Valdez people have ‘made’ me,” said Newman in equally low tones.

  “Doubtful,” responded Nievos, “but we've got to find a place where we can talk. We're OK out here right now because I've swept it—and there is enough street noise to cover us for a few minutes—but we've got to find a secure place for planning these operations.”

  “I agree,” Newman replied, “I'll have Eduardo see if he can find us a vacant warehouse.”

  “Ask him if he can find one on the coast, between here and the airport,” said Suazo, “just in case we need to leave in a hurry.”

  “I'll ask him this afternoon,” said Newman. Then turning back to Nievos, he asked, “Did you find any good locations for installing the detection equipment we're bringing in?”

  “Some,” replied the DELTA Force operator. “There are very good places at the airport and the Central Port here in Caracas. But tomorrow I need to get up to Lago de Maracaibo. It's a much bigger and busier port—and if they bring the stuff in there, we're going to have a real challenge.”

  “We need more people, ASAP,” said Newman—as much to himself as the others.

  “Yes, sir, we do,” said the SEAL sniper. “I don't need a whole lot of people standing around me when I pull the trigger, but I'm going to need a few experienced guys for security, a couple of ‘distractors,’ and of course some guys who know how to drive.”

  “How many altogether, Manny?” Newman asked.

  “I can pull it off with seven more—I'd like to have ten if Washington doesn't squawk,” answered Suazo.

  “How about you, Roberto? Have you figured out how we're going to be able to snatch those nuclear weapons?”

  The Delta Force NCO shrugged and said, “It's really hard to tell right now, General. According to the D-DACT message I received this morning, they are sending nine ‘techs’ to set up the surveillance and detection equipment. If we're going to be here for more than a few days, we're going to need as many as twenty-seven ‘shooters’ who can be trained to stand watches on the gear—and still have a reasonable force to deal with whoever is escorting the nukes when we find them.”

  “So, round numbers—thirty more men from our ‘Special Unit’ down here ASAP?” asked Newman.

  Both men nodded and then Nievos added, “Make it thirty-one, General. We ought to ask Washington to send down somebody who really has his act together to ride herd on this lash-up. You need a good sergeant major to help keep all these balls in the air.”

  Newman smiled, and as they turned to reenter the suite he said, “I already know just the man we need.”

  Blue Waters Retreat

  ________________________________________

  Boot Key, FL

  Tuesday, 30 October 2007

  1700 Hours Local

  Young James Newman was sitting on a beach chair staring out to where the waters of the Atlantic met the Caribbean when Sgt. Maj. Amos Skillings hobbled up behind the boy in his new, high-tech “walking cast.” Earlier in the day a medical officer at the Key West Naval Air Station hospital had fitted him with the device that resembled a modern ski boot.

  “Isn't that a fantastic sight?” Skillings asked him.

  The boy nodded but didn't speak.

  As the big Marine sergeant major drew closer he could see that the youngster's eyes were wet, as if he'd been crying. “How long have you been sitting here, James?”

  The boy shrugged, and still he said nothing.

  Skillings eased his big muscular frame onto the wooden chair beside the one James was perched on and waited for the boy to speak as the setting sun turned the glassy ocean into millions of refracted prisms of light.

  Finally James shifted his weight and said quietly, “You're going away, too, aren't you?”

  Immediately Skillings knew what was troubling his friend's son. “Yes, James...your dad sent me a message today before I went to the hospital. I'm going to go back on duty. It's my job.”

  “How come everyone always leaves me—just when I get used to having them be with me? It's not fair. It's the same as Dad. Why does he have to go away all the time? He never wants to be with me.”

  “That's not true, son,” Skillings told the boy, putting a hand on his shoulder. “It's just that your daddy has a lot of people who depend on him right now—just like I told you when we were driving down here—don't you remember?”

  “I remember—but I'm not sure that it's true,” James said. “If my dad really loved me, he'd stay home more.”

  “Let me tell you about your dad, son. I know him better than just about anyone, except your mom, and I know that he'd do almost anything to be with you if he could.”

  “But he never even tells me where he goes. He says that he has to go away, and then he's gone for a long time and Mom makes us pray for him to get home safely, and one night when I heard her crying, I asked her why and she said she was worried about Dad,” the boy said in a rush, his eyes welling up again.

  Skillings listened to the outburst, then put his hand back on the boy's shoulder and said quietly, “You worry about your dad too, don't you, James?”

  The boy stifled a sob and said, “Yes …” then he quickly added, “but it's mean for him to never be around and make Mom cry. It's just not fair. The other day you said he was a hero. Is that what heroes do?”

  “Well...the Peter Newman that I know isn't mean or unfair,” said the sergeant major. “And as for what heroes do...heroes are people who do things for others at great personal risk—and expect nothing in return. Real heroes—like your dad—are selfless. That means they think of other people first and themselves last. Do you understand what I'm saying, James?”

  The boy nodded and said, “I think so.”

  “Good,” said Skillings, “because this is a very grown-up idea—and it's important because nowadays the word hero is misused a lot. The athlete
who just set a new sports record isn't a hero.”

  “You mean like last night when we were watching the football game on TV and they said that guy who caught the pass in the last second of the game was a hero?” asked James.

  “Exactly right. That's not a hero,” continued the Marine. “Neither is that guy who just climbed Mt. Everest alone. Those fellows may be tough or brave—but they aren't heroes because what they did benefits only themselves in fame or fortune. Like I told you, real heroes are those who put themselves in danger to help others—not themselves—like firemen who rush into burning buildings to rescue someone. And whether they succeed or fail, real heroes inspire others to do better by their example...to do right...to try harder.”

  “Why do they say my dad is a hero?”

  “Because he is, and has been ever since I first met him. Many years ago, during the first Gulf War—long before you were born—I was with your dad in Kafji, when the Iraqis invaded Kuwait and crossed into Saudi Arabia. He hid our Recon Team in the ceilings and attics of abandoned buildings for days while Saddam's army hunted for us. Even when enemy soldiers were in the same building we were hiding in, your dad called in naval gunfire and air strikes to keep them pinned down. If he hadn't done that, the Iraqis might have broken through and overrun the Marine battalion right down the road.”

  “Wow,” said the boy, wide-eyed. “I've never heard him talk about anything like that.”

  “And you probably won't,” Skillings said, “because like most real heroes, your dad is humble. Real heroes don't brag about what they have done.”

  “What else have you seen my dad do?” asked James, now thoroughly engrossed in what Skillings was telling him.

  “Well, during the first part of Operation Iraqi Freedom, your dad commanded a Regimental Combat Team and I was his sergeant major. When we were fighting to take a town called Salman Pak, a Marine CH-46 helicopter landed in an intersection to evacuate some of our wounded. The helo came under fire from a large group of foreign terrorists who had been hiding there. Your dad saw what was happening and ordered our little command group—just three Humvees—to race into position between the helicopter and the enemy. If he hadn't done that, everyone on that helicopter probably would have been killed.”