The Mercenary Option

by Dick Couch

  “Well, no, he didn’t.”

  “Men!” Brisco scoffed. She lit a cigarette and tossed the match to the tarmac in a dismissive gesture. “They can be so thickheaded. I need to get to my station. We can get a cup of coffee there, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  “Isn’t all this classified?” Judy said as Janet put an arm around her and guided her toward one of the vans. Dodds LeMaster had the power cables in place, and he instinctively knew that one of his first duties in an operational environment would be to have a pot of strong black coffee ready for Janet Brisco. “I mean,” Judy continued as they walked, “don’t I have to have a need to know?”

  “Honey,” Brisco replied, “around here, I say what is classified and what isn’t, and I say what needs to be known and by whom. And I just decided that you have a need to know.”

  Wednesday evening, January 1,

  central Afghanistan

  One of the necessities Trish Wilson had brought with her from Sun Valley, Idaho, to central Afghanistan was a boot scraper. It was a two-foot board with stiff-bristled brushes screwed to the center portion of the board. The board was held in place by standing on the board with one boot while drawing the other through the bristles in such a way that snow, mud, or dust would be removed from the bottom and sides of the boot. Dave Wilson never entered their dwelling, wherever it was, without thoroughly scraping one boot, then the other. And in Afghanistan, boots were never left outside because of scorpions. This scraping ritual invariably seemed to humor his wife. This evening, she was not to be humored, no matter how clean his boots were.

  “You better take a look at this.” There was concern in her voice.

  She handed him a clipboard with a sheaf of e-messages. On the top one she had circled the subject line with a yellow highlighter: SECURITY ALERT: LEVEL THREE.

  Security was always a priority with the pipeline crews, but there were various heightened levels of alert, and Level Three was the lowest of them. It meant that additional military patrols would be sent out, and that no personnel should venture beyond the moving perimeter of the compound without an armed escort. This was the second such alert they had received since the project began. The first one was in response to the time they were mortared, but it came after the attack.

  “It says something about the possibility of heightened al Qaeda activity in the area. What the hell do they mean by that?”

  “Not really sure,” Dave replied, “but I’ll have a talk with the colonel and see if he knows anything more. Could be they picked up a cell-phone conversation that the booger-eaters are going to try something.” In keeping with a U.S. State Department directive, Dave had had to ask his construction workers to refrain from referring to the locals as towel-heads and a host of other derogatory terms, so another term for them had come into use. They picked it up from their military security detachment. He gave a sigh; it had been a very long day, and he was looking forward to a cold drink and Trish’s company. As on the North Slope, any use of alcohol on site was prohibited, so their cocktail hour now consisted of lemonade and cribbage. He moved toward the door.

  “I better get my foremen and supervisors together and let them know about this. They’re not going to be terribly happy, as it will slow the survey work ahead of the pipeline.” He shrugged. “Guess that’s why they pay us the big bucks.”

  Trish leaned up and kissed him. “I suppose I better get out our bug-out kits and make sure everything is in order.”

  “Probably not a bad idea.” Level Three alert also meant that all personnel must be prepared to evacuate the camp with a one-hour notice. They could take forty pounds with them, no more. These were usually in the form of backpacks or duffels called bug-out kits—a day’s rations, a change of clothes, important personal documents, and the like. “You do that. And while you’re at it, you might want to consider dumping your hair dryer and adding a few more energy bars.”

  “Never happen,” she replied, giving him a wink and a warm smile.

  Wednesday night, January 1,

  northern Arabian Sea

  The C-130J designated as 275 Charlie had been painted a dun color, and the Joseph Simpson Jr. Foundation logo on the tail had been carefully sanded out. This aircraft was actually one of the foundation’s MC-130J models, which meant it carried a suite of sophisticated electronic countermeasures equipment and had terrain-following navigational radars. It also had an in-flight refueling capability. The electronics alone doubled the price of the aircraft. Outwardly, there was little visual difference; it was something of a wolf in sheep’s clothing. 275 Charlie crossed the Arabian Sea at cruise altitude on a course for Bahrain. Well before it made a landfall off the coast of Oman, shortly before midnight, it rendezvoused with a military KC-135 tanker and topped off. For all the crew of the 135 tanker knew, it was a special-operations bird on some sort of a training mission. After 275 Charlie broke away from the tanker, it headed for the Empty Quarter along the Omani-Saudi border. The aircraft then banked sharply to the north and dove for the deck, a terrifying ride down until they leveled out at two hundred feet. Several times during the flight, Garrett had gone forward and up to the flight deck to chat with the pilots and check on their progress. Now he was securely strapped into his seat. They cut the north coast of Oman midway between Muscat and Abu Dhabi. During the hundred or so miles over the Gulf of Oman, 275 Charlie sniffed the coast of Iran for radar emissions. Thanks to Jim Watson, the electronic order of battle for that section of coast had been downloaded into the plane’s computers before they left Diego Garcia. 275 Charlie knew where it wanted to cross, but would use all its capable sensors to look for any change in the coastal radar coverage. They made a landfall between Jask and Surak, continuing north for the Dasht Lut.

  Just before crossing the coastline, the aircraft dropped to an altitude of one hundred feet. The ride in back had been relatively comfortable over the deserts of Oman and the twenty-minute water crossing, but the mountains between the coast and the wastelands of the Dasht Lut made for a very jerky ride. 275 Charlie did all the flying; no pilot, even with the skill of those now at the controls and with the updated avionics and heads-up displays of the J model, could fly that much airplane that close to the ground in this kind of terrain in the daytime, much less at night. 275 Charlie’s terrain-following radar and autopilot did not care whether it was dark or not. To Garrett, Janos, and the Gurkhas in the cargo bay, it felt like the aircraft was all over the sky. The pilots up front had more perspective, since they could watch the oncoming ridges and valleys with their night-vision optics and anticipate the gyrations of the aircraft. Not so for those in back. Oddly enough, it did not seem to bother the Gurkhas. The wilder it became, the more they grinned, like children on a carnival ride. Garrett had done this many times before, but he did not particularly care for it. He almost lost it when Janos threw up all over himself. It lasted for almost an hour, then the aircraft steadied a bit over the broad highlands of the central Iranian plateau. Garrett could feel the transition when one of the pilots took the controls.

  “Fifteen minutes from our primary insertion point,” came the call from the cockpit over Garrett’s headset. He rogered back and signaled with ten fingers plus another five, and the Gurkhas all gave him a thumbs-up. The cargo bay was bathed in red light to protect their night vision. The troopers, strapped into the bulkhead seats, looked like two files of Martian insect larvae. Even in the red light, Janos was green. He sat there in his own filth, eyes closed, waiting for the ordeal to pass.

  “Primary in five minutes.”

  “Roger, five minutes.”

  “Three minutes.”

  “Roger, three.”

  275 Charlie began to buck and yaw as the flaps and gear came down. They slowed to stall speed.

  “Primary in sight…primary looks good; we’re committed.”

  Garrett held one palm up and tapped it with his fist, indicating they would land on this pass. The Gurkhas checked and tightened their restraints. Seconds later 275
Charlie slammed down onto the dry lakebed, not unlike the Bonneville Salt Flats, but not nearly so smooth. The engines immediately reversed, and the big Hercules ground to a halt. The loadmaster lowered the ramp, and six Gurkhas, all with night-vision goggles, raced from the cargo bay and set up a loose perimeter around the aircraft. The others immediately began to unchain the vehicles. In less than five minutes the Russian jeeps were out onto the desert floor. One of them, with two Gurkhas aboard, raced around the aircraft and sped a half mile in front of it. This portion of the desert, or kavir, was mostly salt flat, but there were a few ravines. The reconnaissance made sure there were no obstacles. The Gurkhas in the jeep flashed an infrared beacon to signal the pilots that their takeoff path was clear.

  “Two-Seven-Five ready to roll,” came the pilot’s voice over Garrett’s intersquad radio. “You guys good to go?”

  He looked to Bijay, who signaled that the men and vehicles were secure. Janos had been unceremoniously slung into one of the jeeps and driven from the plane.

  “Thanks for the lift, Two-Seven-Five. Have a safe trip home.”

  “Roger and good luck to you. Two-Seven-Five clear.”

  The four Allison turbofans quickly spun up to full power. Then, as the four six-bladed Dowty R391 propellers bit into the night air, the Hercules surged forward, hurling a plume of dust and salt behind it. The big bird gobbled up a thousand yards of dirt before it clawed its way into the air and turned east for the Afghan border. Less than ten minutes after the big 130 had touched down, a dead silence again hung over the desert. For close to thirty minutes the little force sat and listened. Then the sound of engines cut the stillness, and the four-jeep convoy moved cautiously away from the insertion point.

  They had landed on the edge of the Dasht Kavir or salt desert, some fifty miles northwest of the oasis village of Ferdows, a crossroads of sort between the Dasht Kavir and the Dasht Lut. These deserts of the central Iranian plateau are some of the harshest and most inhospitable areas in the world. Much of them is still unexplored. Because of the chemical composition of the soil in this almost rainless area, the surface soils draw moisture from the substrata and the atmosphere, giving certain areas the composition of quicksand. Travel is extremely hazardous and confined to the few roads across this treacherous wilderness. The four jeeps kept an interval of thirty yards between them, with stout nylon ropes binding the vehicles together, like climbers working their way across a dangerous glacier. In the few hours of remaining darkness, they managed to skirt Ferdows and gain the main road that took them to the village of Juymand, some forty miles northwest. Outside of Juymand, the jeeps lagered up, pitched a ragged canvas shelter, and began to brew coffee. They were a mineral-exploration venture, and the soldiers were along to protect them from the bandits and drug traffickers. It made sense to hide in plain sight. One of the Gurkhas in tribal dress who spoke Farsi well went into the village to buy some tobacco. He casually let slip who they were and why they were in the area. As a measure of goodwill, he bought a small quantity of hashish. Later that morning, two Republican Guards from the Pasdaran and an official from the village came out for a visit. The Farsi speakers sat close to the fire while the others busied themselves elsewhere. One of them spoke French, and Garrett managed to convey that while they found ample deposits of chlorides, sulphates, and carbonates, the rugged terrain would make commercial exploitation difficult at best. He also allowed that he had never seen a more uninviting place, and that as soon as he was safely back in Tehran, he would be catching the first plane for Amsterdam. But first, they would rest here for the day before heading south into the Dasht Lut for more prospecting.

  After the village delegation retired, the lead Gurkha radioman set up a small satellite antenna. Garrett quickly hooked up with Janet Brisco. The crew of 275 Charlie had reported them safely on the ground, and this was their first scheduled radio contact.

  “Aloha, Home Plate,” Garrett said, coming up on the encrypted link. “Desert Two, checking in.”

  “Cut the crap, First Base,” Janet replied. All business, she was and not appreciative of his attempt at humor. The frequency-hopping and coding capabilities of their radio were such that they really didn’t have to deal with call signs and prowords, but Janet Brisco and Garrett Walker had forty-five years of uniform time between them. Old habits die hard. “Your two bogies reached Deyhuk early this morning. As we expected, they are traveling only at night. We think they will stay there for the day and be back on the road this evening. That puts them about a hundred miles southwest of your posit. They may only try for Ferdows tonight, or they may push on to your location. Recommend that you move away from Juymand this afternoon and get into position. I don’t want to take a chance on them getting past you.”

  Garrett was studying the map as he listened. West of Juymand there were no passable roads for the SUVs. To get to the Afghan border, their quarry would have to leave Juymand and travel either north or south before turning east for the border. They could not get past them, but it meant that Garrett would have to split his small force.

  “Understood, Home Plate. We’ll break camp just before sundown and set up on the north-south road. Keep us posted. I’ll want to know what direction they take and when to expect them.”

  “We’ll do our best, First Base. Let me know when your elements are in place and your grid coordinates.”

  “Will do, Home Plate. My regards to Steven and the federal agent. First Base, out.”

  “Good luck,” Brisco replied. “Home Plate, out.”

  They sweltered under the awning, drank coffee, and swatted flies. One of the Gurkhas bought a goat, and they roasted it for most of the afternoon. The foul stench of singed hair and charred meat said that they were travelers who had made their peace with the desert. Just before sunset, they packed up and drove south away from Juymand. A trail of dust followed them into the Dasht Lut. After dark, Garrett, two of the jeeps, and six of the Gurkhas left the road, turning east. After they were well off the road, they began to work their way north, keeping well to the east of Juymand. Garrett knew exactly where he wanted to be, and with the help of his GPS, they arrived at that position just before midnight. He reported to Janet Brisco that he was in position on the main road leading north from Juymand; Bijay checked in that he was in place on the road south. Now they would wait.

  Thursday afternoon, January 2,

  Langley, Virginia

  Armand Grummell had just had his morning briefing from Jim Watson. Janet Brisco kept Watson advised in general terms, a quid pro quo for the intelligence feed from Langley. He knew the IFOR element was safely on the ground and that the insertion aircraft had landed at Herat, refueled, and was on its way back to Diego Garcia. The two SUVs carrying the nuclear weapons had been seen leaving Deyhuk and heading northeast for Ferdows. They had left after dark, but IR satellite imagery confirmed that the two vehicles were on the move. If they kept to the main road and drove reasonably, they would be in Ferdows by midnight. They could stay there or continue on toward Juymand and beyond. From Juymand, there were two options; two small cities that could serve as staging areas for crossing into Afghanistan. Both Birjand and Torbat were under a hundred miles from the border, with access to numerous cross-border trade routes. These border areas were porous, with little or no monitoring by either government. There was some effort by the Pasdaran to interdict drugs coming in from Afghanistan, but they were no more successful than DEA agents along the southern border of the United States. Birjand, south of Juymand, was an ancient, multiethnic city of a hundred and thirty thousand. Torbat, to the north, was perhaps a third that size and half that of nearby Kashmar, but Torbat was known to be a haven for al Qaeda operatives and Arab expatriates who had served the Taliban. Birjand was a more direct route to the site of the pipeline crews, but Torbat enjoyed a robust flow of illegal border traffic, most of it heroin and most of it from the city of Herat. If Khalib and his bombs reached Juymand, they would go one way or the other. They would know soon enough; the orbi
ting satellites would tell them that. Armand Grummell had long ago learned not to fret about things over which he had no control. He had set this information aside for the moment to attend to a number of lesser but important issues that pertained to running the Central Intelligence Agency. The possible invasion of Iraq had all the intelligence agencies on a wartime footing. His intercom purred softly.

  “Sir, Mrs. Johnstone is here to see you. Shall I say you’re busy?”

  Johnstone would not come directly to his office without first calling if she didn’t have something urgent for him. He had asked her to come to him directly if her research surfaced something of importance.

  “Send her right in,” Grummell replied. It took him only a few seconds to clear his desk and his mind before rising to meet Elizabeth Johnstone. She slipped through the door carrying a large file.

  “I’m sorry to bother you like this, sir, but I have some concerns about the location of those missing nuclear weapons.”

  Grummell held a chair for her, then returned to the swivel behind his desk. “Tell me about it.”

  She sat quietly for a moment, then cleared her throat. “I debated with myself about coming to you with this, because I have little hard evidence to support my suspicions. What I have here”—she indicated the file that she clutched as if it were a sick child—“is really only circumstantial data, a series of clues—satellite photos of a car, a big Mercedes, that showed itself too often in the areas near Khalabad and Baghin at odd times. We’ve just picked up some coded cellphone activity that is typical of high-level Hezbollah activity. Then there have been some strange movements around MIS headquarters in Tehran. And, of course, the fire at that garage near Baghin. That kind of thing was out of character for Khalib. We have followed him for some time now. He is a man of the people; it’s not like him to do something like that. It’s just that…”