The Assassins

by Oliver North

  “Amos, how are you? Is your ankle healing?" asked Grisham, with real concern evident in his voice. Years before, Skillings had served with Grisham and, at one point, had been the head of his personal security detail.

  “Just about ready for my PFT, General," the sergeant major replied.

  “How is Pete doing, Amos? Level with me," said the Chairman.

  “He's tired, frustrated—hoping we can end this thing down here before these warheads get anywhere close to home," answered Skillings honestly.

  “How are the troops holding up?"

  “They're good soldiers, sailors, and Marines, General," the sergeant major replied. “They know how important this mission is—even the civilians we have down here are ‘with it.’ The hardest part for everyone is the waiting. Like you used to remind us, sir, ‘War is 95 percent tedium and 5 percent stark terror.’ It still is." Then as Newman reentered the office/command post, Skillings said, “Here's General Newman, sir."

  Newman set down his canteen cup full of steaming black liquid and took the receiver. Grisham said, “The sergeant major is probably doing more than he should on that broken ankle, Pete. Tell him if he does anymore damage to it down there I'm going to have him court-martialed for destruction of government property."

  “Will do," said Newman, glancing over at Skillings. Then he added, “But I know that's not why you called, sir."

  “No, you're right. I just wanted to bring you up to speed on the latest intelligence we have and what we're going to be doing about those Saudi ships that are leaving La Guaira, so there are no surprises."

  “Yes, sir," said Newman, sitting down and tucking the handset between his shoulder and his ear so he could take notes on the laptop for briefing his team leaders after the call.

  “First, Bill Goode now says that he's confident that there are no more than ten nuclear warheads in Caracas. He comes to that number from several days' worth of intercepts from a SIGINT site in Norway, some Brit and Australian ‘stay-behinds’ in Riyadh, and comms that we're picking up between Tehran and Caracas."

  “Well if he's right, then there are only six left—because four of them are apparently on those three Saudi vessels and that containership pulling out of La Guaira," interjected Newman.

  “I want to come back to the containership in a moment, but let me finish with the latest intel," Grisham responded. “According to Goode, this GRU major—Gregor Argozvek—that Sergeant Major Skillings ran into a few days back is in charge of handing over the warheads. The ‘mad scientist,’ Oleg Zhdanov, is responsible for arming the warheads, and the guy in charge of delivering the warheads to the U.S. is Manucher Rashimani, an intelligence officer assigned to the VEVAK office at the Iranian Embassy. We sent you the latest photos of all three in the last ‘data dump.’ Bill also says that everything happening there is being done with the knowledge and support of the Venezuelan regime."

  “Nice division of labor," noted Newman. “And that all fits with what we can see here. Dan Hart observed three males matching the descriptions of Argozvek, Zhdanov, and Rashimani earlier today at the port while the weapons were being loaded on the Saudi vessels. We know that Argozvek works out of hangar 3 at Simon Bolivar Airport, and Sergeant First Class Nievos is fairly certain that he has seen Zhdanov and Rashimani there too. Do we have any idea where this whole thing is being run from? Is it Tehran, here in Caracas—or is this whole thing on ‘autopilot’ like 9/11 once the orders were given?"

  “Good question—and we still don't know the answer," Grisham replied. “We took out what we thought was their command and control node in Riyadh very early this morning, but that doesn't seem to have stopped things. Goode and the British are convinced that the whole operation is being run from Cuba by Dimitri Komulakov, but the rest of the intelligence community is split between thinking it's Tehran or believing that it's all being conducted from a checklist— ‘autopilot’ as you put it—that was devised weeks or even months ago."

  “So where do we go from here, sir?" asked Newman. “I still have my OP at the port and another one about a kilometer from the hangar at Simon Bolivar. Because of the security clampdown, we haven't been able to get anyone on the military side of the field yet, though Roca—our ‘local’—thinks we may be able to do that by tomorrow."

  Grisham was silent for a moment, then said, “I was going to put this in a message to you, but this is probably faster. At midnight here in Washington, the President is going to notify the UN and every diplomatic mission that any nonmilitary vessel transporting a weapon of mass destruction and headed toward the United States will be sunk on the high seas. If the three Saudi ships don't turn around within an hour, they will be sunk at 0600 Zulu."

  “What about the containership? As I understand it from the ‘local’ with Dan Hart, it's headed for Galveston. Is that ship going to be allowed to proceed?" asked Newman.

  “Well, because it's Chinese-owned and we can't confirm that the container with the nuke was put aboard, the plan is to interdict and search it before it can pose a danger to the U.S. mainland," answered the Chairman.

  Newman reacted as though he had been punched. After a long pause he said, “We tried to get the sensors onto the pier and just couldn't pull it off. We're 99 percent certain that there's a nuke aboard that ship. If it turns out that it does have a weapon aboard that kills Americans, I don't know how anyone here is going to be able to live with themselves."

  Grisham listened and then said thoughtfully, “Don't dwell on it, Pete. That ship isn't going to get anywhere close to the U.S. We'll let the Coast Guard and the Navy handle the stuff at sea. You focus on the remaining warheads that are likely in that hangar. No one can do that any better than you and your men. We wouldn't even know what to be looking for if it weren't for you and your teams."

  USS Dallas, SSN 700

  ________________________________________

  67° W 11° N, Approx 28nm N of La Guaira, Venezuela

  Tuesday, 06 November 2007

  0230 Hours Local

  “Let's take another look at what else is up there before the shooting starts," said Capt. Ross Conner, moving from the plotting table to the starboard search periscope. With the submarine barely moving at three knots, the Type-18 mast barely made a ripple as it broke the surface of the Caribbean. Its tiny sensors immediately detected the navigational radars of the three Saudi vessels and the containership that were approaching the submerged submarine from the south. Inside the conning space there was only silence as the new data appeared on the targeting display over the chart table.

  “Down 'scope," said Conner. “Let's take another look through the attack 'scope, I don't want these guys too close to us when we put a fish into them—and I sure don't want to take out that merchantman by mistake." Conner did a 360° sweep of the horizon with the Type-2 attack 'scope, its aperture wide open to take in as much light as possible. He then focused in on the approaching vessels and said, “XO, start the tape."

  Lt. Cmdr. Mike O'Malley, the executive officer of the boat, said, “Starting tape," as he punched a button on the console above his head, engaging a digital “black box” that would make a recording of all the submarine's sensors, weapons systems, navigational data—and all that was said and seen by the officers jammed into the submarine's conning space.

  “Let's go through that checklist you came up with one last time, XO," said Conner, as much for his own benefit as for the history that was being documented. “We have a presidential directive to engage these three Saudi vessels designated as targets Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie that intelligence indicates are transporting nuclear weapons.…”

  “Check," replied the XO.

  “It is now 0635 Zulu, and the target vessels have not complied with the NOTAM broadcast at 0500 Zulu to return to port."

  “Check."

  “Targets Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie have been positively identified by our TB-16D passive towed array sonar and confirmed on the AN/ BQQ-5D sonar array."

  “Check."

/>   “The targets are at ranges between three and five miles, approaching from right to left at eighteen knots, and we have their acoustic signatures on the WLR-9 Intercept receiver and have validated the information on the AN/BSY-1."

  “Check."

  “The weapons officer confirms that we have four Mark-48 ADCAP torpedoes loaded in the forward tubes set for wire-guided targeting and hull-contact detonation."

  “Check."

  “There is no other known shipping within range of our torpedoes, other than a single merchantman that is not to be engaged."

  “Check."

  “Well," said Conner, “this is why we get ‘sub pay’ Let's go to work. Bring up the attack 'scope so we can see what's happening up there."

  As the port side periscope slid up to his eye level, Conner leaned into the eyepieces and adjusted the focus with a flick of his wrist.

  “Confirm range to Target Alpha," he said.

  “Five thousand one hundred and four yards," said the XO, looking up at the display from the fire control computer.

  As the submarine commander rotated the periscope to the right he said, “Range to Target Bravo…”

  “Six thousand one hundred and sixty yards."

  Shifting his feet, Conner turned the periscope further to the right and said, “Range to Target 3...."

  “Seven thousand five hundred and sixty yards," said the XO.

  “All right, people, listen up," said Conner. “We're going to engage the furthest target first, then the middle target, and then the one closest to us. That way there will be less warning for the forward two vessels. Weapons officer, do you have that firing solution?"

  “Yes, sir, tube number one set to engage Target Charlie," the weapons officer responded.

  “Very well," said Conner looking into the 'scope. “Fire one."

  There was a hiss of compressed air as the nineteen-foot-long, 3,400-pound torpedo shot out of its tube and started racing at thirty-five knots toward its preprogrammed target. As the pump jet drove the sleek cylinder through the water, a tiny wire played out behind it, giving Conner the ability to control the torpedo's guidance system.

  With his eyes still pressed against the 'scope, Conner said, “Time to impact?"

  The weapons officer, staring at the display above his head, said, “Two minutes, thirty-two seconds...thirty-one...thirty…”

  Conner, doing the math in his head, waited for twenty-five seconds and said, “Fire two."

  Once again there was the muted hiss of air from the bow of the sub as a second torpedo launched. On the fire control computer display, a second track appeared, headed toward a triangle with the letter “B” in its center.

  “Time to impact, two minutes," volunteered the weapons officer.

  Conner waited twenty seconds then repeated the ritual, sending a third MK-48 wire-guided torpedo toward Target Alpha—the closest of the three pirated Saudi vessels.

  “Time to impact—one minute forty seconds," said the weapons officer, now watching the three tracks closing on their targets.

  Without taking his eyes away from the periscope, Conner said, “XO, place all sonars in ‘stand-by’ mode and pass the word for everyone to open their mouths and clear their ears if any of those nukes go off."

  Then, watching through the 'scope, Conner saw a tremendous explosion as the 650-pound warhead of the first torpedo found its mark in the side of the furthest Saudi ship. “Scratch one," said Conner. Two seconds later there were two more flashes as the second and third MK-48 ADCAPs detonated almost simultaneously. Then, just moments later, a sound—like an enormous hammer striking the hull of the submarine—signaled the first hit. This underwater concussion was followed by two more—each successively louder—and then silence.

  Conner, still peering through the periscope, said, “Turn the sonars back on and give me what the TB-16 is picking up over the speaker."

  Lieutenant Commander O'Malley reached up and punched some switches, and the speaker above their heads came alive with what sounded like metal being torn and loud cracking and snapping noises—all being picked up by the passive towed array trailing behind and slightly above the Dallas.

  “I'm not hearing the merchantman," said the weapons officer to no one in particular.

  Still peering through the periscope, Conner said, “She's at a dead stop, about a mile behind where Target Charlie once was. She has her searchlights on. Bring up the search 'scope and see if she's transmitting."

  “Yep," said O'Malley, “she's up on channel sixteen—and probably a dozen other frequencies yelling ‘Mayday’ in four different languages."

  “Any of 'em Arabic?" asked Conner.

  The XO looked over at his skipper, not certain if he was kidding, and said, “Our ROE doesn't specify what we're to do about picking up survivors. What do you want to do, Skipper?"

  Conner shook his head and said, “I don't think there will be any survivors; all three boats broke up and went down really fast. We'll wait 'til that containership clears the area, and if it's before dawn we'll creep on over to where they went down and take a look. That's more than they would have done for us."

  “Roger that," said the XO. “Where do you want to go between now and then, Skipper?"

  “Take her down to two hundred feet where the water is colder, set a course of two-niner-five at five knots, and let's see if we can locate that big Saudi ship that was supposed to be heading to La Guaira from Aruba. We still have one fish in tube number four, and I hate pulling those things back inside."

  Lourdes Signals Intelligence Facility

  ________________________________________

  Bejucal, Cuba

  Wednesday, 07 November 2007

  1900 Hours Local

  For the third time in as many days, Dimitri Komulakov was ready to depart Lourdes for Jose Marti International Airport, just six miles north of where he had been encamped at the Lourdes SIGINT facility. His plan to leave on Tuesday had been quashed by an inability to get clearance from the Cuban government to land the Argentine-registered 737 at the airport serving Havana. Then on Wednesday, after Col. Mikhail Vushneshko had intervened with his Cuban counterparts, the flight was scrubbed because of the international outcry over the mysterious sinking of three vessels, thirty miles off the coast of Venezuela.

  Komulakov had watched the coverage from the “comfort” of Vushneshko's command center and had quickly concluded that it was the work of American submarines. According to the news reports, the captain of a merchant ship that had just left the Venezuelan port of La Guaira had observed the explosions and searched for survivors. Apparently, none were found.

  Now, as Komulakov awaited the arrival of the Zil sedan and the two military trucks that would transport him and his small party to the airport, he was increasingly concerned that the whole venture was coming apart. He turned to Major Sakharovsky, the Spetznatz officer who would be accompanying him on the flight to Caracas, and asked, “How many are going with us, Viktor?"

  “Well, it was only supposed to be just eight of us—you, me, and six of my best men," replied the younger officer, “but now the four Iranians insist on coming along."

  The anxiety showed on Komulakov's face. “How did they even know we were leaving?"

  “I don't know, General, but it has been common knowledge here among Colonel Vushneshko's people for several days now. The senior Iranian of the four who have been with us, Assad Bashayan, told me a few minutes ago that he must report to Manucher Rashimani in Caracas. He also said that I should tell you that this Rashimani person is looking forward to seeing Ardon Najm again."

  Now Komulakov was truly alarmed. Ardon Najm—Arabic for “Bronze Star”—was the code name he had been given more than two years ago by Ali Yunesi, the head of Iranian intelligence, for their private communications. “How has this Bashayan been communicating with Rashimani in Caracas? Have they been using commercial telephones? If they have, the Americans will undoubtedly know we are coming."

  Sakharovsky trie
d to allay the general's concerns. “I have talked to Bashayan, the leader of the four Iranians, many times since we have been here. He is an educated and reasonable man. After the incident with the Cubans shortly after we arrived here, he completely understood."

  “You are naïve, Viktor Sakharovsky," said Komulakov in a fatherly tone. “We cannot trust any of these people—and they do not trust us. Do not forget the lessons of Afghanistan when you were a young officer. These Islamic fanatics will offer you a drink of water with one hand and cut your throat with the other."

  Sakharovsky shrugged and said, “I will remind Bashayan again about making sure that all communications must go through us."

  As the two were talking, one of the Lourdes Signals Intelligence technicians approached them and said, “Excuse me, General, but your transportation is here, and Colonel Vushneshko is waiting outside to say good-bye." The two officers walked outside into the humidity. Now that the sun was setting it had cooled somewhat. The commander of the FAPSI installation was standing beside the black Zil sedan, holding the door.

  “Travel safely, General," said the Russian colonel, trying not to let his joy at Komulakov's departure seem obvious.

  “Ahh, Mikhail Vushneshko," said Komulakov, “your smile betrays you. We have been a burden. I shall send a report to Moscow Centre telling them that you have been a gracious host."

  “Thank you, General," said Vushneshko, saluting the senior officer as he entered the backseat of the car. “I hope the rest of your mission is a success."

  As the car pulled away from the command center, Komulakov looked back to make sure that the trucks were following them toward the main gate of the complex. He then turned to Sakharovsky in the seat beside him and asked, “Do you have your personal weapon with you?"

  “Yes, General, it is right here," he replied, patting what looked like a laptop computer case on the floor between his feet.

  “Good," said Komulakov. “Keep it handy. If any of the Iranians try anything, kill them all."