The Mercenary Option

by Dick Couch

  Outside the vans, a half dozen men walked a loose perimeter to provide security. The vans were in no danger, but the sentries were part of the exercise.

  “Hallo, luv. There we go,” reported LeMaster. LeMaster was not only a genius and a supergeek, but a cyber warrior; he loved all things military. He had come to the United States from Cambridge, where he taught physics and robotics. For close to a decade he made himself available to defense contractors who provided cutting-edge technologies to the military. He didn’t really have to work; the royalties and license fees from his video war games provided him more than enough to live on. But he was also a patriot with a finely tuned sense of right and wrong, and a keen sense of history. He worshiped Winston Churchill, Margaret Thatcher, and the United States, in that order. Several years ago Garrett had met him on a simulation range he had designed, one of those shoot-at-the-projected-image trainers. Garrett had been immediately taken with his ingenuity and his strong feelings about the threat terrorism posed to the Western democracies. Steven Fagan’s assessment was much the same when he met LeMaster. They hired him on the spot.

  LeMaster moved a joystick on his console to adjust a pip on his map display and increased the magnification. Eight thermal dots seemed to float across the screen.

  “Let’s see if the other lads are about.”

  He electronically drew back to a smaller scale and quickly found another seven warm images. He zoomed in and watched them as they seemed to float like soap bubbles across the screen. Then, one by one, they stopped.

  “On the ground?” Fagan asked.

  “Looks like it, sir.” LeMaster responded.

  Steven Fagan nodded and smiled to himself. He could not keep LeMaster from calling him sir. The one thing Fagan could offer Dodds LeMaster that the U.S. military had not was the opportunity to operate the equipment he built and participate in operations. LeMaster now felt he had joined a fighting service and that Fagan was his commanding officer.

  “Eagle One down,” came the report on their headphones.

  “Eagle Two down,” a different voice added.

  Garrett Walker and Bijay Gurung, each with a squad of Gurkhas, had just jumped from two separate GSI helicopters. They were to rally independently, patrol in, and attack their target simultaneously. There was no moon, and the stars were partially obscured by a high layer of clouds. Tonight, as for most training exercises, half the Gurkhas trained while the other half supported the training logistically, as well as providing opposition forces. Tomorrow night, they would be back out here, and tonight’s support crew would be parachuting in. A night parachute and an assault on a fixed target was not a difficult nor a particularly challenging exercise for Garrett and his Gurkhas. But it kept them sharp. It was more an exercise for the mission planners and controllers in the vans.

  “Eagle One is moving,” LeMaster reported. He shifted the cursor and increased magnification, “and so is Eagle Two. You want to take it, Billy?”

  “Got it, Dodds,” Owens said. In the next van, he keyed the tactical frequency and keyed his headset. “Okay, Eagles, this is Home Plate, check in, please.”

  There was a two-second delay, then, “One here,” followed by, “Two here.”

  For training purposes the signal was taken on an up-link and sent halfway around the world and back, even though sender and receiver were only a few miles apart. Through the slight time delay and the scrambler, it was just possible to discern Garrett’s flat-toned voice and Bijay’s cultured British accent. At twelve thousand feet, a Predator drone orbited the southernmost tip of the Big Island of Hawaii. With the advent of Global Hawk, the Predators had become a second-line platform, but still a highly capable one. They had any number of commercial security and surveillance applications. GSI had recently bought four of them from General Atomics at $25 million a copy and put them into service. This drone had been launched from a private airstrip on Oahu and flown southeast to Hawaii. There it was handed off to Dodds LeMaster, and now to Bill Owens. The end user did not need takeoff and landing skills; it was a video game—cursors and touch-sensitive plasma displays.

  “Okay, One, you have a deep ravine in front of you,” Owens said. “Come left to a heading of one-six-zero for fifty meters, and you should find a path across.”

  “Understood. One, clear.”

  “Two, stop where you are.”

  “Two stopped.” Even the distance delay did little to mask Bijay’s precise diction.

  “There is a sentry at ten o’clock from your direction of travel and another at eleven thirty.”

  “This is Two, wait, out.” After a few moments, “This is Two. We have them.”

  “Recommend that you turn left of track to box around them, fifty meters a side on the box.”

  “Understood. Two clear.”

  The drones and their infrastructure were expensive, too expensive for any hope for them to be commercially viable. But then, they didn’t have to pencil out. Much like the Gurkhas in Kathmandu that GSI contracted out for physical security work, the drones were being contracted out for corporate security work. The Department of Energy and Nuclear Regulatory Commission had even contacted them about patrolling remote nuclear-waste-material storage sites. How could they refuse? GSI had ordered several more drones, and the ones in inventory were being modified under Dodds LeMaster’s guidance to extend their utility, and in some cases, their lethality. Should the need arise, they could fly a long way and stay on station a long time. Since GSI considered them expendable in mission-critical situations, they could fly and perform their surveillance duties until they ran out of fuel. For that contingency, LeMaster had installed a self-destruct feature.

  “They got us, we’re lit up.” said Janet Brisco, looking at a digital readout of one of her displays. Both teams had painted the vans with lasers. “You want to call them in?”

  Steven thought for a minute. “Not yet; it’s still early. Let’s pass control to them and let them play for a while.” Brisco nodded to Owens.

  “Eagle One, this is Home Plate. Stand by to take control.”

  “Understood,” Garrett replied. “Wait one, out.”

  In a dark, black-rock gully some two hundred yards from the vans, a Gurkha pulled a notebook computer from his backpack and clipped it on. While the computer booted up, he unfolded a small, omnidirectional antenna and connected it to the notebook. A hand squeezed his shoulder, and the Gurkha spoke into his headset.

  “One is ready.”

  “You have it, One.”

  With the arrow buttons in place of a joystick, the Gurkha began to manipulate the cameras and sensors of the Predator. To get a better perspective, he shifted the drone’s orbit slightly to the east and ordered it down two thousand feet. He looked back over his shoulder, and a broad smile cut his blackened features. Garrett Walker grinned back at his Gurkha and again squeezed his shoulder. The notebook and the display were identical to the video-game mockups LeMaster had put in the Gurkhas’ barracks. In addition to their nightly dry-firing drills, they each had to take a turn on the Predator simulator. And since it was a game, the Gurkhas quickly became very good at it.

  Two hours later the two parked vans were joined by three more. These were passenger vehicles. The Predator was on its way back to Oahu. Garrett, Bijay, and the Gurkhas who had parachuted in with them milled about the vehicles. They moved like ghosts, bathed in the interior lighting from the vans. All were dressed in black Nomex, one-piece suits with a full kit of combat and field gear. They had been in the field for only a few hours, but they could have remained for days. Each of their lightweight Kevlar helmets carried a night-vision optic, swung to one side now that they were not in use. Janet Brisco passed out mugs of strong tea to the Gurkhas, who accepted them shyly and murmured their thanks. She stooped to hand them out, but she still towered over them. Garrett and Bijay conducted a quick debriefing for the men, as did Janet Brisco for the van crews. Tactically, either Garrett or Bijay would be in charge. Operationally, Janet Brisco made the
calls. Steven Fagan was speaking with one of the Gurkha sergeants when his cell phone began to purr. He took a moment to politely excuse himself, as Gurkha custom demanded, and stepped away.

  “Fagan…I see…Understood.” He listened for several moments, then consulted his watch. “We will be there and standing by. Understood…Good-bye.”

  Garrett Walker watched the exchange and the thoughtful, intense look on Steven’s face. Fagan made two quick phone calls, then motioned for Garrett to join him.

  “I’ve recalled one of the helicopters to come back for us. That was Joe; it looks like we might have some work. There is an extended-range Gulfstream inbound from Honolulu to the Kona Airport that will take us to Nellis Air Force Base in Nevada.”

  “Nellis!” Garrett exclaimed.

  Steven nodded solemnly. “Normally, I would not like us both on the mainland at the same time, but this may have to be an exception. And I think we better take Janet with us. It seems that it’s time for that. The helicopter will be here in ten minutes. You know what to do.”

  Garrett nodded. He called Bijay over, bowed politely, and then fell into deep conversation. Steven sought out Brisco.

  Thursday afternoon, December 12,

  Villefranche

  Pavel Zelinkow sat at his computer and verified the transfer of funds. He had received the first payment of $15 million once the weapons were removed from Kahuta. The second $15 million was paid when the two bombs were safely in Khalabad and in the hands of Imad Mugniyah. Thirty million American dollars. It was enough, he thought. Why not quit now? He paused and sat back from the terminal to consider this. There was a glass of Bordeaux on his desk, and he took a cautious sip. Zelinkow had always felt that he could disappear at will and no one would find him. To disappear did not mean that he would have to leave his home and go into hiding. He existed only through a number of false identities and a series of electronic communication links and banking relationships, all coded. No, for him to disappear meant only that he would have to cut and cauterize the ties to his work. Zelinkow was not foolish enough to think he would be impossible to track, but it would be very, very difficult. It would take, he thought, someone of his skill, and there were not too many of those around. But then who would want to try? The terrorists would simply take the weapons and sell them or use them on a target of their own choosing. And Mugniyah was being paid handsomely on his end—the same as himself. The Saudis could scream for his head, but to whom? The few in the royal family who knew what was planned hadn’t the talent to find him, and they would be too busy covering their own tracks. And what were a few million to them? Then there was Amir Sahabi, the Iranian sheik. Zelinkow smiled. The Iranian sheik, indeed! He was smart, but what could he do without offending his royal patrons in Riyadh? No, thought Zelinkow, I could walk away from this; the question is, do I want to?

  The final increment, another $20 million that he would receive when the bomb was detonated, was a consideration. There were always a few more orchestras and museums that could use his help; he could upgrade his status from benefactor to patron of the arts. Certainly he and Dominique would never have to suffer another performance from the orchestra seats or drive themselves to an event. The misfortunes of the stock market had forced a number of previous wealthy collectors to put their cellars up for sale, and there were some exquisite wines to be found at a bargain—if you had the disposable funds. The money was a consideration. Yet, he admitted, it was more than that.

  Zelinkow had learned his craft under Vladimir Putin, and had tasted the greatness of the old Soviet Union. In those days the KGB was a feared and powerful organization. Putin had survived, but dedicated professionals like himself had been released with little or nothing for their years of dedication and hard work. A KGB officer was a man superbly trained to become a criminal; Zelinkow knew this and accepted it. But there was also honor. Crime was one thing, but to prey on the Russian people, as Putin and his inner circle had done, was more than criminal. It was traitorous. Mr. Putin now held power in Moscow and was thought to be respectable. With the exception of their differences in Iraq, he and the American president were fast friends. This pipeline could not have been built without Russian cooperation. The concessions the Americans would have to grant Putin would most certainly enhance his power and his wealth. And then, there were the Americans.

  The Americans, with their wealth and their technology, had driven the Soviet Union under. They outspent us, Zelinkow admitted, and we were crushed by the weight of our military expenditures, trying to keep up with the West. The old system was not the best, but there was pride and there was order. Now the Putin and the Russian mafiosi were sucking the life from Russia, just as the arms race with America had done to the Soviet Union. At least under the Communists, the arts and the rich cultural tradition that were the soul of Russia had been respected, if not encouraged. With the move to a market economy, art and the theater were now commodities, left to fend for themselves without government help. One only had to look at what the Bolshoi once was and what it had become to know that things were not what they had been.

  No, Zelinkow thought, I will do this. For the money, of course. But I owe Putin and the Americans one. One more, then I will cut my ties to the secret life and quietly make my exit. One last curtain call to set the record straight.

  He took a measured sip from the glass at his elbow, then turned back to the terminal. First he had to deal with his recent fee. It was a question of how to move the money. He could move it about in smaller sums, ones that would be less noticeable to the network of corresponding banks. The funds came and went in a nanosecond, leaving only a transfer fee and a coded electronic signature in their wake. But the smaller amounts meant more transactions, more electronic events. The banks he dealt with were religious about their security, and indeed, their very existence depended upon it. But in the wake of 9/11, the Americans had shown a great deal of ingenuity in prying into the affairs of banks. The spy games between the investigators and those who did not want to be investigated was now played at a very elevated level. The alternative to multiple transfers of small amounts was a single transfer, from one bank to another. From a single financial institution who played the security game like Kasparov played chess, to another with the same high standards. These banks had a great many clients with much more money than Zelinkow and just as much to lose if their financial dealings were brought to light. Zelinkow made the single transfer.

  With that decision behind him, he turned to issues that concerned Imad Mugniyah. What a unique and extraordinary man, Zelinkow thought as he reviewed the file. Mugniyah was yet another reason not to prematurely abandon the venture; Mugniyah was his financial partner. He was not only intelligent and methodical, he had the same passion for anonymity as did Zelinkow. It was no wonder that he had lasted this long in the business. Mugniyah had the coded phone and the encrypted e-mail capability that were all that a modern terrorist needed. Zelinkow and Mugniyah had done business for years. They had met only once in person, and had spoken on the phone less than a half dozen times. They never left voice mails. When they did speak, after the encryption and switching, the spoken word was almost robotic and lacking any human feeling. Mugniyah was, Zelinkow reflected, the perfect business associate.

  Zelinkow busied himself for the next few hours, sending e-mails, making arrangements for services, and authorizing funds for those services. He could have false documents prepared by a master forger and securely sent to an undisclosed location and with no attribution to himself. He could do this as easily as most people could call Domino’s and order a pizza for home delivery. It was part of his profession. He was almost finished when the intercom on his desk purred.

  “Yes, chérie?”

  “You said to call you at five,” she said sweetly. “It’s a few minutes past.”

  “Ah, thank you. I was just finishing and will be along in a few moments. Ciao.”

  He finished and went through the ordered protocol to put his security measures i
n place. He showered and dressed carefully, and joined Dominique on the veranda. A simple, elegant dinner arrangement for two had been made at a small table positioned to best capture the evening sun on the Mediterranean. A selection of hors d’oeuvres and a sterling bottle of chilled pinot grigio waited on a side table. She had not told him what dish she had prepared and waited in the kitchen. Yet the mere thought of a culinary surprise by Dominique set his mouth watering. She too had been working this afternoon, and she was not unskilled in the kitchen. Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto no. 3 gently mingled with the rich scent of jasmine and lilac. The sun had just passed over the crest of the coastal range. Any afternoon chill would be held off by the retained warmth of the stone patio. Zelinkow was attired in a white long-sleeved, pleated dinner shirt, white slacks, and woven leather loafers. Dominique wore a flowered silk ankle-length shift with a single strand of pearls and an orchid in her dark hair. They were both plump, scrubbed, and radiant. She poured two glasses of wine and handed him one with a fetching smile. They touched crystal, and turned wordlessly to admire the view.

  Thursday evening, December 12,

  Washington, D.C.

  A black limousine slid silently to the curb in front of Morton’s, and a tall man in a topcoat standing well away from the restaurant entrance stepped to the curb. A young man in a tailored suit leaped from the front passenger seat and opened the rear door for him. The tall gentleman slid into the dark interior; no lights came on with the opening of the doors. The young man quickly regained his seat, and the long sedan eased from the curb and into the traffic. The process took less than five seconds. In L.A., such an occurrence would have indicated a celebrity; in St. Petersburg, the Mafia; in Zurich or Bonn, a banker. The same event in London might have been someone of peerage. In Washington it was the signature of wealth and power. Tonight, with this particular limo silently pulling away from an exclusive Georgetown restaurant, it was wealth, power, and a great deal of uncertainty.