Heroes Proved

by Oliver North

  “What do you think, Dad?” asked James.

  The father looked at the son, shook his head, and said, “I hope so. But I doubt it.”

  OVAL OFFICE

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  WASHINGTON, DC

  WEDNESDAY, 15 SEPTEMBER 2032

  0800 HOURS, LOCAL

  The rotor brake had barely stopped the revolving carbon-composite blades of Marine One before the president was out of the helicopter and on her way up the South Lawn toward the White House. After smiling and waving to the throng of assembled admirers on the rope line and ignoring calls from reporters relegated to the camera platform behind the crowd, she entered the South Portico. As soon as she passed through the green doors into the building, the smile disappeared and she snapped to her Secret Service PSD team leader, “Straight to the Oval Office.”

  White House Chief of Staff Murad Muneer, National Security Advisor John Smith, and White House Counsel Larry Walsh rose as she entered the curve-walled room. As usual, she didn’t invite them to sit, so they stood in a semicircle in front of the Resolute Desk as she sat, placed her purse on the carpet, pulled out her PID, and started giving orders.

  “M&M, we need to update the statement I issued last night from California about Vic Foster’s attempted suicide. Put something in it about prayer. Say that we’re all praying for his full recovery and his return to leading the FBI.”

  Murad nodded and used a small stylus to scribble a note on the screen of his PID as she continued. “John, where do we stand on the new DNI assessment of what happened in Houston?”

  “The latest draft is in circulation for agency comment,” Smith replied, scrolling down on his PID. “It concludes that the attack was likely perpetrated by a previously unknown Anark-cartel entity with the involvement of sleeper cells from Jewish terror organizations operating in the United States.”

  “Good. When will it be out?”

  “We are requiring that principals clear the executive summary by close of business this afternoon. I will transmit a copy as soon as we reconcile any objections or discrepancies.”

  “Who is objecting?”

  Smith grimaced and said, “Let me work on this for a few hours. I told department secretaries and agency heads we need to get this out quickly and we aren’t going to settle for a lot of tinkering here.”

  “Very well, make it clear to everyone I want the report on my desk tonight and we plan to announce the findings tomorrow. Now, where do we stand on getting another statement out of the Caliph?”

  When no one spoke, she said, “Murad, what does your friend in Jerusalem have to say?”

  “It isn’t what we wanted to hear,” the chief of staff responded.

  “What does that mean? Is the Caliph going to issue another one of his famous fatwas or not?”

  “There will be no new fatwa. The Caliph has said all he is going to say about the attack in Houston. He asks that you try to understand his predicament.”

  “His predicament! He’s not running for reelection, I am! What’s his problem? Doesn’t he realize I’m the best friend he has? If his people weren’t behind this, why can’t he just issue another statement along the lines I suggested?”

  Smith quietly intervened to stop the tirade. “Because he disagrees with our conclusions about who was behind it.”

  “And what does the Caliph, sitting in his royal robes in Jerusalem, know about who killed a hundred and forty-seven Americans and wounded nearly two hundred more in Houston, Texas, on Saturday?” the president asked.

  Smith tried to take Murad off the hook. “Madam President, the Caliph has many sources of information. His embassy here has been feeding him every press report and MESH blog since the attack. He is convinced the Iranians did it—to show that he is just a false figurehead for Muslims and to undermine his credibility with the West.”

  “Well, all the more reason why he ought to come out with a statement that nobody in the Caliphate had anything to do with what happened in Houston.”

  “Unfortunately, the Caliph is very much of the mind-set that he is more vulnerable to unrest within the Caliphate and from the Iranians than he is from us,” Smith answered.

  “The Iranians?” She sounded confused. “There is nothing in any of the intelligence or the DNA analysis implicating a single Iranian in the Houston attack. How would they pull it off? It’s been seven years since we put them in their box. They haven’t had the means to do anything except kill their own people since my husband took out their military capability.”

  At this Murad interjected. “Please remember, Madam President, the Iranians tried to assassinate the Caliph when he was in Paris last year.”

  “Hunff. Didn’t we decide the Paris attack was carried out by a group of disgruntled Syrians?”

  “That’s what DNI and British intelligence concluded,” Smith answered. “The French eventually came around to that view, but the Caliph has always believed the suicide bombers were recruited, trained, and dispatched by Tehran.”

  “Are you telling me the UN’s global DNA bloodline database is wrong about the matches found in Paris and now in Houston?”

  “No, ma’am,” said Smith. “The global bloodline analysis is pretty accurate. As you know, nowadays we can track a DNA sample practically back to a hometown anywhere on the planet if there are enough matches in the UN registry. In the cases like Paris or Houston, DNA can tell us with near certainty who an individual is—if his or her family or tribal bloodline is in the database. If he isn’t in the registry we can usually tell where he is from. But DNA won’t tell us whether a Saudi, an Egyptian, or a Somali suicide bomber was working for a Sunni or Iranian jihadist.”

  The president shook her head and said, “So what am I to take from this? Give me the short form. I need to get ready for the noon fund-raiser in Baltimore.”

  Murad tried again. “The Caliph is convinced the Houston attack was the work of the Iranians, who—because they are Shiite—will never accept a Sunni as Caliph. He thinks Tehran pulled the Houston attack to throw us off track and they are preparing a much larger strike against the West in an effort to drive up oil prices.”

  She stood and said, “No doubt a major attack would drive the cost of oil out of sight. But how does he think the Iranians could launch any kind of significant assault against us or our friends in Europe or China? We took out Tehran’s nuclear sites and long-range missile facilities back in 2025. The Saudis and OPEC are taking their price and production cues from the Caliph, and he has promised not to let oil prices go up until after November.”

  Murad said nothing, so Smith spoke up. “Very privately, the Caliph claims to have information the Iranians still have several nuclear weapons and the Russians or the Chinese have secretly provided them with some kind of mobile missiles or rockets capable of delivering a nuclear warhead.”

  “Why haven’t I seen any intelligence on this?”

  “We hadn’t heard any of this until Murad’s ‘hotline’ conversation with the Caliph last night,” Smith replied. “I immediately asked DNI for an all-source intelligence analysis of what we know about Iranian nuclear and missile capabilities. As of ten minutes ago, I still don’t have the DNI report.”

  She paused for a few seconds, then said, “Very well, get it to me when it comes in. Murad, make sure you get that statement out about Vic Foster. John, have you collected the information I asked you to get about this CSG outfit?”

  Amazed at her ability to shift gears so quickly, the National Security Advisor simply said, “Yes.”

  “Good. Get the contracts to Larry so he can figure out which ones we can get out of fastest.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “When the new report on Houston and this Iranian nuclear weapons intelligence estimate come in, limit distribution to the four of us and make sure none of this gets circulated to the Hill until I say so. When I return from Baltimore, I want to see all of you about this CSG matter. Murad, John, that will be all for now. Larry, stay here for a minute
.”

  When the other two men departed, she sat again and gestured for Walsh to sit in an armchair beside the desk. “How was your meeting with the AG about this Newman person?”

  “The Attorney General has drafted a warrant to arrest James Newman, but he doesn’t want to proceed with it until the U.S. attorney here in D.C. gets a sealed indictment from the special grand jury. That’s supposed to happen on Friday.”

  “How can he be sure?”

  “It’s a D.C. grand jury. They will indict a ham sandwich for stealing mustard. It will happen.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then the FBI arrests him and puts him in a military brig. Under the statutes we’re using, we can hold him without bond or access to anyone for ninety days.”

  “Good. Where is this Newman character now?”

  Walsh’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “We haven’t found him yet, but we have DNI, DHS, INS, the FBI, and now the FAA looking for him.”

  “The FAA?”

  “When I briefed you on Monday, I told you a DHS scanner at the Kalispell, Montana, airport picked up what was thought to be a brief transmission from Newman’s PERT.”

  “Yes. Go on.”

  “Well, it turns out the PERT signal apparently coincides with the takeoff time of a CSG aircraft.”

  “Where did it land?”

  “Dulles International Airport, at ten sixteen yesterday morning. The FAA is checking the flight records and will get the passenger, cargo, and crew manifests. I told them to hold off on interviewing the pilots so we don’t tip them off we’re looking for Newman.”

  “What else?”

  “We have entered an electronic BOLO with Newman’s digital image in the National Surveillance Network. If any NSN camera images him, the Fugitive Desk at the DOJ Ops Center will get an alert and notify me. I’ve also told them to do a rollback on every image they have from the Canadians, Kalispell, and Dulles since he disappeared in Calgary. Interpol and the Canadians will post the BOLO as soon as the AG tells them.”

  “We need to get this guy locked up so we can show we’re making progress.”

  Walsh paused before responding, “There isn’t much more we can do without tipping our hand we’re looking for him—or creating some kind of back-blast. We’ve committed a lot of resources to this hunt. People inside these agencies are liable to start asking questions. As your lawyer and your friend, I want to make sure you understand the vulnerabilities here.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, if Vic Foster recovers, he may want to talk about being pressured to change the FBI report on Houston. If Newman surfaces somewhere and can prove he had nothing to do with Houston, we would have a problem. If the stuff the Caliph told Murad—with Smith listening in—about the Iranians turns out to be true, it is a problem.”

  She shook her head, reached out, touched his hand on the armchair, and said, “Larry, you worry too much. We’re smarter than any of these fools. Foster isn’t going to recover. I know Murad is in bed with the Caliph—probably in more ways than one. I know Smith would sell me out in a minute. But now they can’t. Neither can the AG, or the DNI or anyone else. They are all in this now. Their futures are tied to my reelection. All we have to do is keep the lid on this for forty-seven more days.”

  “What if this Newman character calls a press conference or holds one of those MESH Meets like you hold with your supporters?”

  “He wouldn’t dare. He is wanted in Calgary as a suspect in the murder of a scientist who was working with our disappearing Dr. Cohen. If Newman’s back here, he illegally left Canada and entered the United States—violating Canada’s laws, ours, and the North American Union Treaty. His family has oil and gas holdings and security contracts with a half-dozen companies in the industry that would be hurt by Cohen’s fuel cell technology. They run this CSG outfit full of former military extremist goons. He has motive and means. Moreover, if all that stuff in the 2026 congressional hearings about what he did in Afghanistan is true, he’s deranged and dangerous. Find him and lock him away.”

  CAIR PARAVEL

  ATLANTIC AVENUE

  PAWLEYS ISLAND, SC

  WEDNESDAY, 15 SEPTEMBER 2032

  0900 HOURS, LOCAL

  U.S. senator Mack Caperton arrived at the Cair Paravel gate precisely at 0830, just as he said he would. He was accompanied by U.S. Capitol Police Officer Mark Carter, as he said he would be.

  As Peter punched a button in the kitchen to open the gate, James, Sarah, and the two oldest boys quickly retreated upstairs to avoid being seen by Carter. Ten minutes later, Elizabeth knocked on their door and said, “Okay, you guys, the coast is clear.”

  When they came downstairs and entered the living room, Peter and Mack were laughing uproariously. After giving the senator a hug, Sarah asked, “What’s so funny—and what did you do with your security man?”

  “Oh my,” Caperton chortled. “Peter made a quick phone call and got Officer Carter a room at the Sea View Inn so he will be near enough if I need protection from you crazy people.” At that the two burst into laughter again, this time with Elizabeth joining in.

  Bewildered, James said, “Okay, are you going to let us in on the joke?”

  “Now, you have to understand Officer Carter takes his job very seriously,” Caperton began. “As we were driving here from the airport, I asked him how he and our new SSCI staff member got along on the drive from Charleston. He went on at some length about how James Lehnert was a nice enough young fellow, but he was apparently carrying on with the owner’s beautiful daughter and mentioned there is a picture of them in the bathroom.”

  Sarah darted into the bathroom and returned looking perplexed. “What’s so funny about that? I looked pretty good before I had twins.”

  “Well,” Mack continued, “whatever James told him last night challenged Officer Carter’s sense of propriety. So when we came in, Peter and Elizabeth were here with the twins and Carter concluded ‘the owner’ has a trophy wife and two young children.”

  “I still don’t get it,” said Sarah.

  “Mark Carter travels with me a lot. He’s often heard me tell young staffers to avoid compromising situations. When I went back down to the car with him to get my bag, he turns to me very seriously and says, ‘Senator, I’m not sure about these folks. Don’t let your morals slip while you’re staying here with that old goat and his young honey.’ When I told Peter and Elizabeth what he said, they noticed all the pictures missing off the walls.”

  Sarah looked around, noticed the missing photographs for the first time since arriving, and said to her husband, “It’s a good thing your mother isn’t here to see this or to hear what Officer Carter thinks.”

  * * * *

  With strict instructions to “stay out of the water,” Seth and Josh headed out with the twins, David and Daniel, in tow to explore the dunes for loggerhead turtle nests and feed the seagulls. The four adults gathered around a table on the ocean-side porch with steaming cups of coffee.

  “Let’s go through what we know for certain,” Mack began. “We have no new verifiable intelligence about the whereabouts of Marty Cohen. His PERT has not been picked up since Saturday night, when he was put aboard that speedboat in Houston. My source in Coast Guard Intel says the Galveston VTC tracked a high-speed boat headed down Galveston Bay and out into the Gulf of Mexico immediately after the Houston attack.”

  “Coast Guard Intel? VTC?” asked Elizabeth.

  “Few people know the U.S. Coast Guard has a major intelligence operation for port security, counternarcotics, and the like,” Mack responded. “VTC is Vessel Traffic Center. The Coast Guard operates twelve of them around the country using cameras, radar, radio reports, aerostats, RPA sensors, and satellites to keep track of shipping entering and leaving U.S. ports and off our coasts.”

  “Does the Coast Guard know where this high-speed boat went once it headed out into the Gulf?” asked Peter.

  “Not for certain. Satellite imagery from NGA at Belvoir d
oesn’t show it to be in any ports, but they found several vessels in the Gulf it could have come alongside—or even hoisted the speedboat aboard. I told them to narrow the search to vessels that have not entered U.S. ports to escape Hurricane Lucy. They have isolated two they regard to be suspicious—both are coastal service tankers—the Orfeo and the Ileana Rosario. Unfortunately, both are off the Yucatan Peninsula and seem to be invisible beneath the cloud cover of Hurricane Lucy.”

  “So bottom line, do we stand up our Hostage Recovery Unit or not?” asked Peter.

  “I think you put them on standby near an airport or airfield where they can be moved quickly, once we have some idea where Marty is. I’m convinced whoever has him knows he is more valuable alive than dead.”

  Peter pondered this a moment and said, “Maybe we ought to move the HRU out of CONUS, just in case the White House moves to shut CSG down.”

  Nodding, Mack responded, “That might not be a bad idea. The question is, where?”

  “Whoa,” James broke in. “What’s this about shutting CSG down?”

  Caperton paused for a moment, then said, “I told your dad about this yesterday and don’t want any traffic on this over the MESH, a phone, or a PID. I have an informant in the White House who tells me they have called for all the USG contracts with CSG and are looking for another company or companies to perform what CSG currently does for the government.”

  James shook his head and said, “How would they do it?”

  “As a legal matter, the Department of Justice can allege that any company doing business with the government has failed to comply with some provision of a contract. But as a practical matter, the services CSG provides for DoD, DHS, State, CIA, DNI, and WHCA can’t be replicated—at least not in a time frame that matters,” Caperton replied. “Here in the States, CSG provides communications support, intelligence analysis, sensitive-site security, and a half-dozen other services. Overseas, you guys are doing everything our military used to do: intel collection, comms, security, log support, PSDs, facility protection, and conducting what we used to call Special Operations.”