by Oliver North
A moment later, Avila said quietly, “I've got 'em. They just entered the tunnel beneath the Plaza Venezuela...now they're coming out...moving onto the Avenida Real Quebrada Honda...just as Eduardo's brother said they would." Then, a second later, he added, “There's no wind, Chief. All the flags between here and there are hanging limp."
Suazo never acknowledged or looked to verify the information being passed to him. He and Avila had worked together in Afghanistan and Iraq, and the sniper trusted his spotter implicitly. The chief had carefully memorized the route that Eduardo had given them, and trying to follow the moving motorcade on his scope would do nothing to improve his shot.
“The motorcade is now making the left turn at the mosque, and slowing down," said Avila. Then, a few seconds later, he continued.
“The security goons are running beside the second Mercedes, that's the target car...helicopter making another pass...the cops are pushing the crowd back along the street in front of the museum…”
Suazo, lying totally still on the mattress, could finally see the cars moving into his field of vision from left to right on the scope. All he needed now was for the car with Mubassa in it to stop where it was supposed to—and for his “target” to hold still for two seconds after exiting the vehicle.
As the second Mercedes came to a halt, he placed the crosshairs directly on the rear door, put his right forefinger on the trigger, took a deep breath, and slowly started to expel it as he waited for the door to open.
At that moment, Suazo's D-DACT began to vibrate on Pam Browne's hip. The chief had handed it to her when he had climbed up on top of the mattress and told her to hold it “until I finish my work."
She snatched it off her belt, looked through the peephole to confirm that the corridor outside the door was still empty, and glanced down at the message on the screen: NEWMAN TO SUAZO. MISSION CANCELLED BY WASHINGTON. RTB ASAP. REPEAT, MISSION CANCELLED, RTB. Stunned by the directive, she hit the key labeled ACK—acknowledging receipt of the message—and turned to tell Suazo.
In the scope, Suazo saw the head and shoulders of President Valdez as he exited on the far side of the Mercedes. Then, a plainclothes security man opened the rear door and Mubassa emerged smiling and waving to the crowd. With the crosshairs square in the middle of the Nigerian's corpulent mid-section, the SEAL sniper began a slow, steady squeeze on the trigger.
Suddenly, a bright flash all but obscured Mubassa, and then an instant later, a second explosion seemed to detonate on top of the Mercedes. Peering through the scope, Suazo relaxed his trigger finger and muttered, “What the—”
“Grenades," said Avila, calmly, never taking his binoculars off the target. “Looks like Mubassa and Valdez are both down."
A brief moment later, the sound of the two explosions carried down the Rio Guaire into the hotel suite. Suazo, still looking through the scope at the pandemonium in front of the museum, said, “It looks like someone just did our job for us."
“You better read this, Chief," said Browne, handing Suazo his D-DACT.
The Navy sniper quickly read the message from Newman, saw that Browne had already acknowledged receipt, shrugged, and said, “Let's get out of here."
“Plan A or Plan B, Chief?" asked Avila.
“Plan A—just as if we had done the job," replied Suazo, removing the magazine from the Barrett, clearing the round out of the chamber, and climbing down from his perch. “We were expecting a lockdown—and there surely will be one after that. Sanchez, you and Browne are on Canadian passports. Take the Metro as planned to the Propatria Terminal at the end of the line. Send a D-DACT to the warehouse when you're ready for pick-up. One of Eduardo's sons will swing by every hour in one of their white airport vans starting at 1500. Avila and I will take the rental car and drive back to the warehouse on the Autopista."
In ten minutes, the four of them had their individual weapons stowed, the hotel suite back in presentable condition, the Barrett stripped down to four component parts and hidden in Suazo's luggage, and were preparing to leave the room. As Sanchez and Avila made one last sweep through the room, Browne asked, “OK, Chief...who did it?"
Suazo, mindful of the D-DACT message that had come in just as he was preparing to end Mubassa's life, looked at her and said, “I don't know, but you can bet we're going to get blamed for it."
CJR Warehouse
____________________________________________
867 Avenida Maiquetia, Caracas, Venezuela
Saturday, 03 November 2007
1235 Hours Local
“General Newman, sir, there's a secure sat-phone call for you from the NMCC," said the Army warrant officer manning the communications in the warehouse office. The Marine brigadier got up from the table where he, Lt. Col. Dan Hart, and SFC Nievos had been trying to piece together what was happening fifteen kilometers away in downtown Caracas from Chief Suazo's brief D-DACT messages and the local newscasts.
He took the handset from the warrant officer's outstretched hand, pushed the button on the side of the device, waited for the electronic “handshake” of the encryption systems, and said, “Newman here."
“Stand by for the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs," said the caller.
The next voice Newman heard was that of Gen. George Grisham: “Pete, what's going on down there? Didn't you receive our message calling off the operation on Mubassa?"
“It wasn't us, General," said Newman. “We received your message at 1158 local, transmitted a ‘Stop Order’ immediately, and then somebody else did a hit of their own. Master Chief Suazo saw it happen through his sniper-scope. Apparently two grenades were thrown from the crowd."
There was a long pause, and for several seconds Newman wasn't sure he'd been heard. Then Grisham said, “Roger that. I'm sure this is going to make things very complicated down there, but everything that we have points to Venezuela as the place where all these pirated Saudi ships and planes are being assembled."
“Is there anymore intel on the hangar where we think the radiation is coming from?" asked Newman. “Has Langley been able to dig up any blueprints or design info?"
“No, Pete, the Agency has been so busy chasing after Saudi boats and planes that all they've been able to tell us is that the hangar was erected in 2006 by a Brazilian contractor for the Venezuelan Air Force," replied Grisham.
“Anything new on the Saudi ships and aircraft?" Newman asked.
“Yes," replied Grisham. “The NRO now agrees with Bill Goode at Langley that three of the pirated Saudi vessels are in port there in La Guaira, one is in Maracaibo, and there is one en route to La Guaira from Aruba, due to make port there tonight. The first satellite pass early this morning clearly shows five civil aircraft parked on the apron, interspersed among the Venezuelan military's new MiG 29s and SU-34s. Bill Goode believes that these civil aircraft are pirated Saudi planes; NRO isn't so sure."
“Well, I know you want confirmation, General," said Newman, “but I can tell you, it was already a tough go just getting onto the military side of the airfield, and it's going to be a whole lot tougher after this. I'm just hoping that they don't round up any of my people or the locals working with us in the manhunt. According to the news reports, martial law has been declared and a curfew is being imposed at sunset."
“Have you got anybody at the La Guaira port facility?" asked Grisham.
“Not now," Newman responded. “We did a recon there earlier in the week, but we don't have any of our people there now—only a security man who is on the payroll of our ‘local’ named Roca. And he has to report in by phone."
“Does this Roca fellow have any of his people who can get inside or even near the hangar?"
“No, sir," replied Newman. “All we have for surveillance over the hangar are the two small, radio-remote cameras that SFC Nievos put in place last night. One camera covers the gate to the airport perimeter road, and the other one gives us a view of the apron on the north side of the hangar—where the MiGs and SU-34s are. I don't want to sound like I'm getting
cold feet, but between you and me, General, the fifty-three men and two women I have here aren't enough people to take care of both the aircraft and the ships in the port."
Grisham was silent for a moment. Newman was right. All he had available to him in Caracas were the Army JSOC, Marine Recon, Navy SEAL and CIA specialists who had been sent to Venezuela for the original Threat Mitigation mission. The Chairman then replied, “Don't worry about trying to take out any of those Saudi vessels; the Navy is going to handle that end of things." He then added, “But it would be helpful if we can get the word immediately if any of those ships get underway."
“I'll do what I can, General, but the way things are shaping up, even though the port is only a few klicks from here, it's likely going to be tomorrow before I can get any of our people into position to observe what's happening there," Newman replied.
“Is the local news saying whether Valdez is dead or alive?" asked Grisham. “Our ambassador was apparently there on the steps of the museum and was slightly wounded by shrapnel from one of the blasts. We're not getting much from the embassy."
“The news reports here say that El Presidente was wounded during a CIA assassination attempt and was rushed into surgery at the University Hospital—right across the river from where he was hit."
“Any signs that this might be part of a coup?" asked Grisham.
“Nothing yet," replied Newman. “One of our teams is trying to make it back here on the Metro system—which they've reported is still running. The other team is coming back here by car, and they sent a D-DACT message as they passed the National Guard headquarters southwest of central Caracas, reporting that there were no visible troop movements. But it's only been a half hour since the attack."
“OK...good report, Pete. I'm going to tell the SecDef that I've ordered you guys to terminate your original mission, to button up for right now until the situation settles down, and then to go after whatever is in that hangar as soon as possible."
“Roger that, sir," Newman replied, then added, “One last question, General. Do we have anything firm on how long we have?"
Grisham paused before answering, then he said quietly, “Firm, no. There are a lot of indications that there's a major attack being planned for the very near future. Bill Goode is convinced that it's going to be the eleventh of November—Veteran's Day. If he's right, and the nuclear weapons are to be loaded on pirated Saudi planes and ships in Caracas, the perpetrators would have to deploy the vessels from there sometime on the fifth or sixth at the latest to meet that schedule. The aircraft wouldn't have to leave there until sometime on the eleventh."
“Then we have some time to figure out how this is going to go down from this end," Newman said hopefully.
“Perhaps—as long as we're reading the tea leaves the right way," responded Grisham. “We're running a ‘rational model’ analysis on this. As you know, Pete, that only works until our adversary starts behaving irrationally. But either way, the scenario tells us that our window of greatest vulnerability begins as soon as a pirated Saudi ship or plane slips out of Caracas, evades detection, and makes it out to sea or into the air. That's why we've concluded that we need to take care of the ‘bomb carriers’ as far from here, away from there, and as soon as possible. The ‘gamers’ tell us that we only win when we ‘play on the road.’ We ‘lose’ when it's a ‘home game.’”
“And that's where we get the date of the fifth or sixth of November to get these guys?" asked Newman.
“Right," said Grisham. “The ‘gamers’ say that the ‘red cell’ odds of ‘winning’—meaning they succeed in detonating one or more nuclear devices in U.S. territory—begin to increase significantly on the fifth and approach 95 percent by midnight your time on the sixth—and that those percentages happen if they succeed in getting any of their assets out of Caracas and on their way toward us. And as usual, our odds of winning also improve every time we get inside the red cell ‘decision loop’ by disrupting their plan."
“Roger that," said Newman. “Anything else, sir?"
“Not right now," Grisham replied. “I'll call you back if there are any changes coming out of our next meeting at the White House."
When the JCS Chairman signed off, Newman handed the handset back to the watch officer and turned to Hart, who asked, “How much time do we have, sir?"
Newman looked up at his deputy and said, “We have forty-eight hours to start taking their pieces off the board."
Lourdes Signals Intelligence Facility
________________________________________
Bejucal, Cuba
Saturday, 03 November 2007
1240 Hours Local
Gen. Dimitri Komulakov was standing in the Lourdes command center about to take a sip of coffee when one of the young FAPSI technicians got up and switched the channel on the large Sony television receiver at the front of the room. As Komulakov brought the mug to his lips, a BBC “news reader” said, “....and we'll have more from Caracas on the attempted assassination of Venezuelan President Horatio Valdez in just a moment, but first, Nigel Meacham, our correspondent in Washington, has reaction from the American administration....”
Most of the hot liquid ended up on Komulakov's shirt and trousers as he roared, “Get Dubzhuko on the secure voice circuit! Now! ”
As he waited for the call to be put through, the general stood and watched the remainder of the BBC report—while holding the wet shirt away from his scalded stomach. The reporter in the U.S. said, “....and in her statement, Secretary of State Helen Luce says that Washington had nothing to do with the assassination attempt on President Horatio Valdez. Yet U.S. congressional sources have already confirmed that the administration recently officially sanctioned assassinations in a secret codicil, and Mr. Valdez has said repeatedly that the Americans were out to get him. At the same time, no one at the State Department would respond to questions about the death of highly respected United Nations Assistant Secretary Samuel Mubassa, but one of our sources in the American Congress has told us that, and I'm quoting here, ‘Mubassa was the real target.’ And that, if true, only adds to the confusion and mystery of the assassination attempt. This is Nigel Meacham for the BBC in Washington. Back to you, Francis."
Komulakov was shaking his head, stunned at what this event might mean for his carefully planned operation. He recalled his earlier conversation when Dubzhuko had suggested having Maj. Gregor Argozvek—their man in Caracas—take care of the Mubassa problem, but their conversation had been cut off before Komulakov could sanction it. And in the aftermath, he had forgotten about it. Now it was too late to undo the major's bungling effort.
One of the communications specialists approached him, pointed to a handset connected to the console, and said, “Sir, we have the secure circuit established. Just pick up right here."
As the phone rang in Riyadh, Col. Nikolai Dubzhuko put down the latest encrypted e-mail from Major Argozvek. The former GRU officer's brief missive to Dubzhuko in Riyadh had described the operation against Mubassa as a “success with unfortunate side effects," noting that President Valdez had been “slightly wounded when one of the two grenades was thrown too far." By way of explanation, Argozvek went on to note that “this is the kind of problem we always have when we have to rely upon clumsy natives to do our work for us."
When Komulakov heard Dubzhuko answer the phone, he immediately began to bellow, “Have you heard from Argozvek about this assassination attempt against President Valdez? What's going to happen to our schedule? Does he know if the Americans really were behind this? Is the Caracas—” Then, over-modulated by the excessive volume, the fragile secure-voice connection between Cuba and Saudi Arabia abruptly shut down.
In Riyadh, Colonel Dubzhuko looked at the secure telephone that had just gone dead in his hand and returned the handset to its cradle—knowing that Komulakov would call back. Though the call had been prematurely terminated, Dubzhuko had heard enough to realize that Komulakov was unaware that the grenade attack in Caracas was really Argoz
vek's ill-conceived and poorly executed effort to kill Mubassa. He decided then and there that what Komulakov didn't know now could all be explained later over a bottle of good vodka. After all, everyone was sure to blame the Americans.
Venezuelan Air Force Hangar 3
________________________________________
Simon Bolivar International Airport
Caracas, Venezuela
Saturday, 03 November 2005
1515 Hours Local
“We cannot wait until dark, Doctor Zhdanov. You must finish installing the weapon in that aircraft this afternoon," said Maj. Gregor Argozvek. The former GRU officer was sitting at his desk in the office adjacent to the huge hangar. Through the glass partition that separated the air-conditioned office from the hangar bay, a half-dozen technicians could be seen poring over a blue and white Boeing 737.
“But it is too hot," complained the Russian nuclear weapons expert.
“I don't care how hot you are; you must finish installing the weapon in that aircraft this afternoon," demanded the former GRU major, pointing at the 737 through the window. “You only have two aircraft completed. As soon as the weapon is installed in this plane, we must get down to the port and install weapons in the three ships that are already there—before the others arrive. Then we will come back here and complete the remaining aircraft. Stop complaining—you are being well paid."
“You fool," the Russian scientist snarled. “It is not a matter of comfort! It is too hot and humid for the device—for doing this kind of work under such conditions. These are old artillery rounds. They have not been well maintained. The tritium triggers must all be replaced. This is work that is normally done in a carefully controlled environment. It cannot be done properly under these conditions."
Argozvek loathed the scientist for his superior attitude and lack of self-discipline. The GRU officer didn't have the foggiest idea what a tritium trigger was—but he was smart enough to know that he was ignorant on such matters and to not continue arguing about them. He also knew that he needed the older man's expertise to finish arming and loading the nuclear weapons. The major decided to try a different approach. “Please, Oleg Zhdanov, come, sit down. Let me get you a cold drink," he said, rising and going to the small Chinese-made refrigerator and bringing back a bottle of chilled water.