KBL

by John Weisman

  The answer is simple: because we rig the war games so the military-industrial complex can prosper.

  Except: Paul Van Riper was more concerned with the art of war than the art of making money. He resigned from MC02. He retired from the Marine Corps. Then he went public. He told anyone who would listen that having overwhelming force and cutting-edge technology doesn’t mean you’re going to win against an asymmetric enemy who can adapt, identify your vulnerabilities, and exploit them.

  Van Riper’s theory was proved correct in Iraq by AQI and by the thousands of IED attacks against our forces.

  So when Spike came to Dick Hallett with his Abbottabad theory, and Hallett spent two days arguing devil’s advocate but couldn’t shake the keep-it-simple-stupid, makes-sense logic of Spike’s arguments, he and Spike took the case to Stu Kapos, who listened, and then called up to the director’s office and asked for an appointment.

  Within twenty-four hours, Hallett had been instructed to commence an operation that would result in a covert CIA entity, Valhalla Base, being established in Abbottabad. From that base an undercover team of CIA spooks would observe the Khan compound from afar and penetrate it utilizing the latest state-of-the-art eavesdropping, thermal, and optical equipment available. The goal: lay eyes on UBL. Then find a way to kill him.

  24

  CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

  March 23, 2011, 1600 Hours Local Time

  Valhalla Base had been operational since October, without results. Immediately in the wake of the March 14 Restricted Interagency Group (RIG) meeting, NSC Chairman Sorken had started making noises about closing it down. Of course he had. Vince Mercaldi was convinced—he laughed and said “Of course I am” whenever he pronounced it that way—that Don Sorken wanted the entire Abbottabad mission to go away.

  Sure he did: Abbottabad was risky. And risky was bad politics. Closing down Valhalla Base would kill the Abbottabad mission.

  Vince had already spoken to the secretary of state on the subject. Kate Semerad agreed that CIA’s outpost should be kept operational. And she would be happy to make that argument to the president. If, that is, her colleague at Defense was also on board.

  “We’ve got to present a united front,” she insisted. “This is a president, and you know this as well as I do, Vince, who tends to go with the last person he talks to. And Don’s in the goddamn office ten times a day and you and Rich and I are not. And you also know the president’s a purebred political animal. First, last, and always.”

  She laughed, a tinge of bitterness in her voice. “Shit, I sure know it, the way he creamed me in the primaries in oh-eight.”

  Vince knew enough not to say anything.

  “Bottom line? He’ll talk to Don and his Chicago people and they’ll tell him ‘Stay away.’ Will that be final? I’m not so sure. I think he’ll do the right thing if we can find a way to . . . encourage I guess would be the most printable word I could use . . . encourage him to do it. But we can’t accomplish that unless you and Rich and I are on the same page.”

  Vince promised he’d get her a definitive response from SECDEF within forty-eight hours. That had been forty hours ago.

  So now it was Spike’s turn to make his argument about UBL and Valhalla Base to the secretary of defense. But SECDEF Hansen was in Cairo—and seven hours ahead. Moreover the SECDEF’s Cairo schedule was chockablock full, programmed to the minute. He had a meeting scheduled with the Egyptian military chief Field Marshal Mohamed Hussein Tantawi, a session with Essam Sharaf, the interim prime minister, as well as visits to Army headquarters and the Mukhabarat, a Q&A press availability, a short meet-and-greet with Cairo’s sizable group of U.S. military personnel, and a dinner with members of Egypt’s interim government.

  It took half a dozen phone calls between Vince’s chief of staff and the SECDEF’s military assistant before arrangements could be made for a secure, fifteen-minute teleconference at 2315 Hours Cairo time, 1615 at Langley.

  Vince Mercaldi knew Rich Hansen was not in favor of a spec-ops assault on the Khan compound. But he was also sure that the SECDEF would want Valhalla Base kept operational. He knew that because Hansen had had the Joint Chiefs chairman go through the Air Force chief of staff to come up with attack plans using stealth bombers flying eight and a half miles—just under fifty thousand feet—above the target. The strike would be flown by the Air Force’s 509th Bomb Wing from Whiteman Air Force Base in Missouri by B-2 Spirit bombers. The weapons would be the Joint Direct Attack Munitions.

  JDAMs are tail-kits that incorporate global positioning systems (GPS) and inertial navigation systems (INS) onto a wide range of general-purpose munitions. The problem for Abbottabad was that under normal circumstances JDAMs had a thirteen-meter CEP, or circular error probability. In English, that meant that their accuracy was only within a forty-two-foot-three-inch bull’s eye.

  Nowhere near good enough for this particular mission.

  For JDAMs to be accurate within three meters (just under ten feet), they would need what is known as a terminal seeker. The point of impact would have to be “painted” on the target by a forward air controller utilizing an infrared beam that the munitions’ guidance systems would key on. Only then could the strike use five-hundred-pound bombs to surgically flatten the complex but still ensure that the six homes across the ten-meter-wide road that ran past the Khan compound’s front gates went unscathed.

  For that kind of pinpoint accuracy, a pair of FACs—forward air controllers—would be needed to paint specific parts of the villa. The FACs would need to be infiltrated prior to the bombing raid. They’d also require a safe house in Abbottabad as the Air Force had no Pashto-capable FACs. CIA had a safe house. And the language-capable people to run it.

  1612 Hours

  Dick Hallett punched the cipher combination into the door lock and waited until the latch was released. Then he pushed it inward. He’d insisted, despite OSHA regulations, that all the exterior doors to BLG areas open inward, because that meant the hinges were inside, and thus protected. Hallett had broken into more than a few locked-down locations overseas by tapping out door-hinge pins.

  He and Vince proceeded into BLG’s SCIF, where Spike and BLG’s two AV technicians were waiting.

  Hallett introduced Sue and Jessica, the technicians, then ushered the director to a conference table. Vince eased into the center chair of the three that had been prepositioned and opened his jacket so Jessica could affix the mike to his lapel and give him an earpiece. Spike, rumpled as ever, clipped on his own microphone and sat on the director’s right. Hallett dropped into the remaining chair.

  Sue focused the camera. “Hey, it’s the Three Amigos,” she said as she brought their pictures up on the four-foot-wide screen.

  “Amigos, Sue? ‘Wherever there is eennjustice, you will find us,’ ” Hallett bellowed theatrically, “ ‘wherever leeberty is threatened, ju will find’ ”—he spread his arms wide—“ ‘los Three Amigos!!!’ ”

  The SECDEF’s face suddenly lit up the screen. “Hola, amigos!”

  Hallett’s face reddened. “Sorry, Mr. Secretary.”

  Rich Hansen broke into a wide smile. “It’s okay. After all the pomp and circumstance here in Cairo, a little levity is just what’s called for.” He paused. “How’s it going, Vince?”

  “Hot and heavy,” the CIA director replied. “We’ve got a little problem here, and we need your help.”

  “Shoot.”

  “There’s been talk at the White House about closing down Valhalla.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “We here don’t think it’s a good idea, because it limits our options.”

  The secretary said nothing.

  “So I thought you might like to hear from Spike about why we need to keep those options open.”

  “Thanks,” Hansen said, “but I don’t need to. I’m with you on this, Vince. As you know, I’ve been working on some options of my own.”

  “Yes.”

  “And they would necessitat
e having a forward-basing opportunity available.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “Plus, I had a chat with Kate about an hour ago. I don’t think I’d be violating any confidences if I told you we talked both strategy and politics.”

  “So you—”

  “Let’s not take it any further,” the secretary said. “We all have our note-takers working. Let me just use her words and say I’m on the same page as you-all.”

  Vince gave Dick Hallett a quick glance. “Thank you, Rich.”

  “We have the same goal here, Vince,” the secretary said. “One target. One objective. Where we opine differently is about how to go about achieving that goal.”

  “Mr. Secretary?”

  Hansen squinted. “Is that you, Spike?”

  “Yes, sir.” The analyst pressed forward against the conference table. “One point I’d like to make.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I’ve red-teamed your air option with some of my colleagues here, and there’s something I think you should know.”

  “Yes? Go ahead.”

  “We’ve never been able to do a complete forensic evaluation of the site.”

  The secretary’s forehead wrinkled. “Forensic evaluation, Spike?”

  “What I mean to say, sir, is that the Khans bought the compound and built the house before it was on our radar. We have overhead from before it was built, and overhead from after it was built. But nothing from while it was being built.”

  “What’s your point, son?”

  “Sir, for all we know, they could have put in a bunker below the house.” He paused. “A deep bunker. We’ve got soil samples from adjacent land. The ground there is perfect for it—no rock layering, so no blasting would have been necessary. And there’s no way to absolutely confirm or deny without inspecting the interior of the villa. Which we are not capable of doing. So we must assume that they built a bunker to protect UBL.”

  Spike looked at the screen. The SECDEF’s eyes showed surprise—even shock.

  Spike said, “Sir?”

  There was a long silence. Then the secretary said, “Good catch, son.” He said it without enthusiasm and then he grimaced into the screen. “The Air Force hadn’t considered that factor, Vince.”

  Vince kept a poker face. Because neither had he. Or Hallett. Or Stu Kapos. But Spike had. And it was huge. Significant. A deal-breaker. If UBL had a bunker, five-hundred-pound bombs would do no good. Two-thousand-pound penetrator munitions would have to be employed—at least a dozen of them, perhaps more. Which would absolutely have lethal collateral effects on the surrounding area.

  And more to the point, there would be virtually no way to confirm Bin Laden’s death. The site would be obliterated. Sure, Bin Laden DNA might be obtained. But it could be DNA from one of his children. No way to know for sure. Because the Paks were certainly not going to allow a CIA forensics team to go combing through the rubble.

  Bottom line: the mere prospect of a bunker beneath the villa effectively killed the air strike option.

  Which meant the one remaining possibility was a stealth approach using helos, a fast ground assault, and a rapid exfil. Exactly what Wes Bolin first suggested and was currently rehearsing. And what Rich Hansen would argue against.

  Vince cleared his throat and said, “That’s why we have folks like Spike here, Rich. And thank God we do.”

  “Agreed.” The secretary stared into the camera. “I’m still not convinced that Wes Bolin’s plan will work,” he said. “But given today’s development, I want to hear him out. I’m back in three—no, four days. Can we arrange something early next week?”

  Vince nodded affirmatively. “We’re scheduled for our next RIG briefing at the White House on the twenty-ninth. We’ll meet before then, and you can hear how Wes would put this thing together. I think you’ll be impressed.”

  “If anyone can pull it off, it would be Wes.”

  “I agree.” Although he made sure not to show it, Vince Mercaldi was mildly surprised. It was the first positive reaction to a special operations raid he’d heard from the defense secretary. He’d have to call Wes Bolin right away. Prep him for the pre-RIG session with the SECDEF. But Vince’s face betrayed nothing. Instead he smiled at the camera. “Safe travels, Rich.”

  “Thanks, Vince. I like getting out of the office once in a while. Now Kate—she’s on the road all the time. She’s this administration’s Flying Dutchman.”

  It was true. The secretary of state had logged more than half a million miles since she’d been confirmed by the Senate. In fact, there were those who believed—and Vince was one of them—that the president was keeping Kate Semerad on the road to ensure that she wouldn’t present a threat to his reelection efforts in 2012. She’d been his most formidable opponent in 2008.

  Vince chuckled. “Well, thanks for your time, too, Rich. I know how precious it is.”

  “De nada.” The defense secretary waved offhandedly into the camera. “Hasta luego . . . amigos.”

  The screen went blank.

  Hallett looked at the tech behind the camera. “We clear, Sue?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  “Mikes turned off?”

  She checked her console. “Mikes are dead.”

  The director said, “Great.” He dropped his mike on the table, grinned, and high-fived Hallett and Spike. “We’re in business, gents. Magnificent work, Spike.”

  The analyst beamed. “Thank you, sir.”

  Vince looked at him strangely. “By the way, what you told the SECDEF.”

  “Yes?”

  “About the bunker.” Vince had to reach up to put his arm around the younger man’s shoulder. He tip toed toward Spike, stage-whispered “C’mon, Spike, you can tell me” conspiratorially, then stood back.

  “Tell you what, sir?” The analyst looked confused.

  “What you told the secretary. About the bunker,” Vince reiterated.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Was that actually true, Spike?”

  “I believe it is.” Then the big man whose pseudonym was George S. Nupkins took a long and uncharacteristically theatrical pause. “But I guess we’ll only find out for sure when our people are in the house, sir,” he finally said, a sly smile creeping across his face.

  25

  Abbottabad, Pakistan

  March 27, 2011, 1935 Hours Local Time

  Charlie Becker lay back on the pallet he used as a bed and massaged what was left of his legs. His whole body ached. But it was a a good ache. A Ranger ache. The kind of ache that told him he was alive and well and had used his body to its limits. A Darby Queen ache.

  Ranger candidates spend ten days at Fort Benning’s Camp Darby, where, among other things, they get to run the obstacle/confidence course known as the Darby Queen. The Queen is twenty-four stages that test your fear of heights and challenge your balance, your upper-body strength, and your ability to keep going no matter how badly you’re being dinged. Tonight Charlie felt as if he’d done three circuits on the Darby Queen.

  But the news was all good. His message, bursted half an hour previously, was that Abbottabad had gone back to being the sleepy little garrison town it always had been. There were no ISI gumshoes trolling. Arshad and Tareq Khan were both in residence.

  But the main point of his message was that today he’d gotten a glance inside the gates of Ground Zero. He’d gone by the perimeter just after noon. From the smoke and the smell, they were burning trash behind the wire-topped wall.

  As he rolled past, Charlie paused to watch half a dozen youngsters playing street soccer on the road that ran parallel to the compound wall. He’d just started up again when one of them sliced the ball over the wall. So he paused to see what would happen.

  A couple of minutes later, the gate opened just a crack, an arm and a shoulder protruded, and the ball was dropped into the street.

  And Charlie, on the opposite side of the road, saw something as the gate cracked open. He saw a strap diagonal across the sliver of c
hest of whoever had opened the gate. And the butt of an AK.

  It was just a flash, but it was important. Yet another sign. There were no other villas in Abbottabad—at least among the ones Charlie had seen—where people came to the gate carrying assault rifles.

  Was it proof of anything? Of course not. But Charlie also knew intelligence isn’t like, wow, here it is: everything. Intelligence is finding little pieces of a puzzle and sending them on to folks who understand how to put those pieces together—folks who know that they may not be working on one puzzle, but five or six or ten puzzles simultaneously.

  So far as he knew, no one had ever seen anyone in the Khan compound who was armed. Now Charlie could report for certain that there was at least one AK-47 on the premises.

  Did it prove that UBL was living there? Not exactly. It proved only that there was at least one person living in the villa who was wary enough to arm himself when he burned garbage. But it was . . . an info-bit. Something that might turn into an indicator.

  Charlie blew out the kerosene lamp, covered himself with the lumpy pad that served as his blanket, and snuggled in for the night. He would sleep well. Today he had earned his pay.

  26

  The White House Situation Room, Washington, D.C.

  March 29, 2011, 0900 Hours Local Time

  The RIG had to be scheduled for nine o’clock because the president was traveling to New York just after noon to dedicate the U.S. Mission building. He was not the only one on travel. SECSTATE Kate Semerad was in London. She had promised to call the White House at precisely six minutes past nine from a secure phone in her limo as she traveled between her meeting with British Prime Minister David Cameron at 10 Downing Street and her appearance at Lancaster House, the neoclassical Bath stone palace on Stable Yard just off St. James’s, where she would meet with contributors to the Libyan opposition.