Military Fiction: THE MAC WALKER COLLECTION: A special ops military fiction collection...

by D. W. Ulsterman

  “Have a seat.”

  Tilley sat across from the general’s simple, steel lined Tanker desk – the same one the general had used during his time at the Pentagon.

  “Have you heard any more from your Mr. Mardian?”

  Tilley shook his head.

  “Well, I did what you requested. Asked around a bit about this Dasha Al Marri. Very interesting woman, very connected. So much so that my initial contact shut me down. Got scared. They didn’t want anything to do with looking into her business.”

  “That normal?”

  The general shook his head.

  “No, especially not from this particular contact, they’ve been feeding me information for years. The fact they backed away just made it more interesting, so I made a call into someone I know at Fort Meade. As you might recall, I had Level Three clearance there right up to my retirement, and still have some folks from my era kicking around. Your request begins with this Dasha woman, so that’s where I’ll start.”

  Tilley knew the reference to Fort Meade meant N.S.A. The general went to the big-time to find more out on Dasha.

  “As I said earlier, I knew a bit of her family, her father. She’s expanded the family’s portfolio quite a bit though. A very political woman, with direct ties to the Saudi Royal Family. My guess, and that is all it is because she’s done a hell of a job muddying her own waters, is that she’s working for the Saudis. She was educated in London, very familiar with Western culture, attractive, all the elements for a good facilitator.”

  Tilley raised an eyebrow, confused over the general’s choice of word.

  “Facilitator?”

  General Vannatter smiled warmly back as he took a piece of paper from a simple manila file folder and slid it across his desk toward Tilley.

  “Look at those dates in the left column. Do they ring familiar to you in any way?”

  Tilley shook his head. The dates appeared random. The general continued.

  “The first few dates are during the first half of 2009. What are the locations on the right side column that corresponds to those first few dates, Mr. Tilley?”

  Tilley saw it was Kyrgyzstan.

  “Kyrgyzstan.”

  The general paused to see if Tilley would find any significance. When Tilley remained silent, the general continued.

  “In late 2008, Kyrgyzstan completed a rather significant natural gas and oil feasibility study. Those dates in 2009 indicate personal visits this Dasha Al Marri made to Krygystan. Do you recall what happened by late 2009 and early 2010 in Kyrgyzstan?”

  Suddenly Ray Tilley grasped the significance.

  “Revolution, the government was overthrown. Some of our own Intel people later said that Kyrgyzstan was the real start of the Arab Spring.”

  General Vannatter pointed a finger at Tilley, as excited for the realization as Tilley was.

  “That’s right, Mr. Tilley! Now if this was a one time deal involving this Dasha, perhaps we could argue coincidence. What are the next two dates in the left column though?”

  Tilley scanned the left column.

  “They are both in September, 2010. Location is…Tunisia.”

  Ray Tilley didn’t need the general to explain the significance this time. He already knew that within a few months of those dates, Tunisia would be in the grips of a revolution and the government toppled.

  “Yes, Tunisia, and just like Kyrgyzstan, Tunisia too has experienced significant growth in its gas and oil explorations. Now go on to the next five dates and corresponding locations.”

  Tilley saw five dates in October and November of 2010. The location was Egypt.

  “She was in Egypt too, right before the revolution there?”

  The general nodded back slowly.

  “Not only was she there, but we know of at least five times! Now Kyrgyzstan and Tunisia are still minor players on the global energy market scene, though showing potential. Egypt on the other hand, well that country offers energy production that can be cashed in for big profits right now. In order to effectively maximize those profits though, would require a bit of a…change in leadership to one more accommodating certain outside interests.

  Now look at the last set of dates and locations, Mr. Tilley, and tell me what you see.”

  Ray Tilley looked down and saw three dates in December of 2010 and January of 2011. The location was Libya – Benghazi, Libya. By early 2011, Libyan dictator Muammar Gaddafi would be facing his own revolution. In March of that year, the United Nations enforced a no fly zone over Libya, effectively preventing Gaddafi from defending himself against rebel attack as NATO forces pummeled the Gaddafi regime with Tomahawk missile and drone attacks. By October of that year, Gaddafi would be dead.

  Tilley leaned back in the chair across from the general’s desk and closed his eyes, focusing on calming his mind so he could think clearly.

  “So she uses her United Nations status as a cover to travel to all of these locations?”

  General Vannatter nodded.

  “That certainly appears to be the case. That’s not all though. Just in case there was any remaining doubt what this woman is up to, and who she truly represents, look at this photo.”

  Tilley recognized the face. It was that of one of Libya’s most prominent post-Gaddafi government officials, a man some were indicating would be the country’s future prime minister.

  ‘That there is Ali Zubahn. Before the Libyan revolution he was a human rights lawyer who worked primarily with---“

  Tilley interrupted the general, something he normally would never do.

  “United Nations - they both are linked together at the U.N.”

  The general didn’t seem to mind being cut off, instead nodding his approval at Tilley’s comments.

  “Exactly, and more than that, Zubahn’s primary residence was London. He was educated there, just like this Dasha Al Marri. Now take a look at this copy of an internal communication that comes directly from Zubahn’s office to a ranking member of the newly formed Libyan Congress less than a month ago.

  Tilley read the brief memo, the words causing his former headache to threaten a sudden return.

  August 8th, 2012

  Per our earlier discussions, I must maintain my recommendation regarding moving of state owned oil administrations to Benghazi from current location in Tripoli as soon as possible. This move will facilitate much needed job creation in that region and bring it further stabilization. Libya must now move back into the fold of the Arab world and put an end to the former power’s ill advised and arrogant pro-African slant. I believe such a move will also enhance improvements in our relations with fellow OPEC nations, most importantly Saudi Arabia.

  This is also an essential moment for Libya to rejoin the world community. In the coming months, I intend to work closely with our affiliates at the United Nations. I am very hopeful of that organization’s own current transformations into a new era, a new United Nations if you will.

  Regards,

  Ali Zubahn

  Member,

  National Party for Development and Welfare

  Tilley placed the memo back onto the general’s desk. The situation in Benghazi, though still riddled with questions, was becoming somewhat more clear. Dasha represented Saudi oil interests, interests that now appeared intent on securing a great share of Libya’s oil production. The same interests working throughout the region, toppling one government and replacing it with another that would be more favorable to the Saudi’s influence. The reference to a “new” United Nations was certainly not lost on Tilley either. It seemed that term was quickly gaining in popularity.

  ‘That’s not quite the last of it, Mr. Tilley. Something else was given to me, something particularly troubling given your men’s current location in Benghazi. I have another photo for you.”

  Tilley looked at a picture of a lean faced man in his mid fifties, with grey streaked hair combed back from his forehead. The face was unfamiliar to him.

  “Who’s this?”

&
nbsp; The general smiled slightly, though is eyes held no humor in them.

  “That is the current head of the U.N. humanitarian operations in Benghazi. He works out of the Benini airport, so has access to everything coming and going from there, and right now, there’s a whole hell of a lot coming and going in and out of Benghazi. His name is Louis Danton. Been with the United Nations for almost thirty years and it’s a rather interesting resume. This is not the first time he’s been assigned to Libya.”

  Tilley could sense his apprehension growing within him.

  “This Danton, when was he there before?”

  General Vannatter cleared his throat as he leaned toward Tilley.

  “He was there a decade ago, as part of a United Nations assessment team. They were investigating Gaddafi’s abandoned nuclear arms program. Now I personally know that while Gaddafi may have been some years away from developing a fully viable nuclear weapon, his government did secure amounts of radiological fissile materials. To my knowledge, those materials have never been fully accounted for.”

  Ray Tilley took a deep breath.

  “General, are you suggesting that some of the arms dealing my team was sent to do surveillance on could include nuclear materials?”

  The general’s eyebrows rose slightly as he looked back at Tilley.

  “Yes, I would certainly be willing to entertain that possibility. What better opportunity to disperse that kind of material than during the ongoing chaos that is currently Libya? And who better to do it than people with United Nations clearance? And I’ll take it a step further now, Mr. Tilley. Let’s talk motivation. Base that motivation on previous examples. This Dasha Al Mari goes into a country a number of times, and then months later, that country’s government is overthrown. Mass chaos, bloodshed, and then it’s replaced by a new regime all while subjecting itself to increased United Nations involvement. What if this whole Arab Spring thing is them preparing the runway for the big show, the real purpose behind all of this?

  “What if, Mr. Tilley, your men in Benghazi now find themselves at Ground Zero of some kind of global restructuring? The very same kind of restructuring that has taken place recently throughout other parts of the world? I know you caught the last part of that communication from Ali Zubahn. He called it a “new” United Nations, right? That sounds rather ominous to me, Mr. Tilley. How about you? Now please take a look at this last bit of information I have for you today. It is a single date and location.”

  Tilley looked at the paper. Like the earlier example, it too was divided by a column on the left with a date, and a column on the right with a corresponding location. This one indicated September 6th, 2012. Yesterday - the very day he had sat in the back of Dasha Al Mari’s car after having been followed by Nigel. The location caused Tilley to inhale sharply as he felt a layer of sweat forming on his forehead. For a brief moment he thought he might be sick.

  The location was the White House.

  XIX.

  Three hours after Ray Tilley had left his home to return to Washington D.C., General Vannatter found himself feeling very tired. It seems he was always feeling tired these days, especially being alone in his big, West Virginia home he had intended to live out his days with his wife Elizabeth. She had unwillingly left him to fend for himself though, finally succumbing to the weak heart that had plagued her last years of life.

  Despite the fatigue, the general had enjoyed the morning’s conversation with Tilley, enjoyed it immensely in fact. He almost felt like his old self - almost. The morning coffee had worn off though, so now it was time for some noon hour tea. He moved slowly, being particularly careful with filling the tea kettle. The shaking of his hands had grown worse in recent months. Doctors informed him two years ago it was Parkinson’s. His children had wanted him to sell the house, saying he shouldn’t be alone. To hell with all that, he’d be dying in this house thank you very much, and the Parkinson’s could just kiss his tired old military four star ass.

  Having put the tea on, General Vannatter settled into one of the two chairs at the kitchen table and looked out the small window that faced the home’s driveway. That’s when he saw the unmarked black sedan slowly drive up and park just outside the front door.

  I’ll be damned, they actually sent someone after me. Guess they still consider me enough of a threat. Likely an easy target too.

  The thought made the general smile. Now he really was feeling like his old self. He rose from his chair and turned the burner down and then checked inside the cupboard just above the stove before turning back around and making his way to the front door. Halfway there he heard the doorbell ring once, and then ring again.

  I’m coming, you traitorous, murdering bastard. I know your kind all too well. Used to send them off to all corners of the world myself, back in the day.

  The general unlocked the front door and opened it, trying to appear surprised at the visit from the tall, dark suited man standing at the entrance to his home. The agent was in his mid-forties, with eyes that held no emotion, his cleanly shaven face equally unreadable.

  “Hello, General Vannatter I’m Agent Bronson, Homeland Security. I was hoping to speak with you for a few minutes about a guest you had at your home earlier today.”

  The man’s voice was flat, nondescript, the introduction well rehearsed. The general knew at that moment the agent intended to kill him.

  Get him into the house you old fool, so you have a chance of giving as good as you get. Die like a proper soldier, dammit!

  “Oh – ok. Come on in then, I’ve got the stove on, need to turn it off if that’s ok.”

  The agent nodded, moving toward the entrance as he glanced back toward his car and the long driveway behind him.

  Get your ass in here you killing bastard, see what I’ve got for you.

  The general stood up straight and placed his right hand against the agent’s chest.

  “Hold on, you said you were with Homeland Security, is that right?”

  The agent again nodded, his eyes flashing brief annoyance at the general’s hand pushing against his chest.

  “Yes sir, here’s my identification.”

  The agent held up the standard, government issued Homeland Security credentials.

  “Thank you. Please, come on in then. Sorry to have asked but you know, these days, you just never know.”

  The agent managed a strained smile.

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Right this way then, the kitchen is down the hall here. We can talk in there if that’s ok.”

  The agent replied as he followed closely behind General Vannatter.

  “That’s fine whatever is most comfortable for you.”

  Once inside the kitchen, the general motioned for the agent to have a seat at the table while he moved to the stove and turned it off.

  “I’m making some tea, would you like some, Agent Bronson? It’s Earl Grey.”

  “No thank you sir. Can you tell me who you spoke with this morning, General?”

  The general paused as he reached into the cupboard above the stove.

  “Oh, an old friend of mine, a former staffer from my Pentagon days.”

  The general sensed the agent tensing inside the kitchen, preparing to strike.

  And this friend of yours, can you confirm his name was, Mr. Ray Tilley?”

  General Vannatter turned around to look back at the agent, his face revealing a seemingly harmless smile before he turned back toward the stove.

  “Yes, yes it was. Can you tell me what this is about, Agent Bronson?”

  The general heard the agent rising slowly from the chair to his feet. He was trying to be quiet, but in a man’s own house, you become very familiar with how things should sound and feel.

  General Vannatter had not shot at another human being in many-many years, but perhaps experience with such things was much like riding a bike. It was just something one never truly forgot how to do. The general realized in that brief moment, and with great satisfaction, that his hand wa
s no longer trembling.

  Agent Bronson’s eyes grew wide as he saw the general’s handgun pointed at him. Bronson had already drawn his own weapon. Both men fired at the same time.

  General Martin Vannatter felt the immense pressure of the bullet hit him in the middle of his chest, the force throwing his body back up against the stove, spilling the hot contents of the tea kettle onto the kitchen floor.

  Nice shot, Agent Bronson. You showed some poise there even when I surprised you with my own weapon. You would have made a good soldier.