Mission Compromised

by Oliver North

  Harrod, his beefy face beginning to redden from the physical act of wiping the furniture, replied, “I don't know the full story, but I'm told that nobody was ever certain that they understood all that North had done in this office. First, the NSC, FBI, and CIA all laid claim to all the paperwork; then the congressional investigators and the special prosecutors fought over it.

  “The papers and stuff were finally boxed up and sent over to archives when the Bush administration left town in '93, but then the Attorney General told us that the FBI forensic people needed to keep the place from being ‘contaminated’ and that they needed to come in here periodically and check for fibers, dirt, hair, and God only knows what else. I finally got tired of their fooling around and told the AG that we needed the space. I got the access codes last Friday. And here we are.”

  The two men sat in the chairs they had just dusted and put their forearms on the now-glistening table. Harrod placed the file folder with its TOP SECRET label in front of them but made no effort to open it or show it to the Marine.

  For his part, Newman wasn't interested in what had gone on in this office before. There had been a dozen books written about the Reagan administration's efforts to rescue hostages and help Nicaraguan Contras. As far as Newman was concerned, that stuff was ancient history; it didn't affect him. He was much more interested in what he was going to be doing here. As soon as the National Security Advisor paused for a breath, he said, “Let's go back to my last question. What am I going to be doing in here?”

  Harrod was suddenly all business. “You are now the head of the NSC's Special Projects Office. In here,” Harrod gestured around the office, “you will have three assistants and an admin-secretary-classified records clerk to handle whatever paperwork gets generated. There won't be much.

  “Your assistants have been handpicked, one each from the Army, Navy, and Air Force. The Army captain served in Delta with your brother. The Navy guy is a SEAL. The Air Force officer flies special missions aircraft. All of these guys served in the Persian Gulf War. They are waiting down the hall in Carol Dayton's office. She's the one who checked you in this morning.” Newman nodded but said nothing.

  Harrod continued, “We don't have the secretary-admin person yet. I have asked the Pentagon and the CIA to send us a list of names of people with the right clearances so that we can pick one and get them detailed over here.

  “All these people will work for you. You work for me.”

  Harrod paused, so Newman jumped in. “OK, that's a nice chain of command, but, again, what exactly will we be doing in here?”

  “As I told you over in the Sit Room, your job is to coordinate the implementation and enforcement of special sanctions imposed by the UN executive. The actual enforcement operations will be conducted by a thirty-eight-man group of handpicked U.S. and British specialists—consisting of twenty-seven Americans and eleven Brits, on loan from the Special Air Services by private arrangement between the President and the Prime Minister of Great Britain. He and our President are very close and in full agreement on all of this.

  “The U.S. personnel are all on detail from Army Delta, Navy SEALs, the Air Force, and the Army's Intelligence Support Activity. Except for sending you over here, the Marines decided they didn't want to participate,” Harrod concluded. Newman wondered why, but he said nothing. As the Special Operations coordinator at HQMC, he hadn't heard about a request for Marine personnel for this kind of unit. But before he could ponder the question further, Harrod opened the file folder with the TOP SECRET label and took out several sheets of paper.

  Harrod began to read from one of the pages: “The International Sanctions Enforcement Group—we're calling it ISEG.” He continued reading, “The ISEG consists of a three-man headquarters element—a U.S. Army captain, a British SAS lieutenant, and a U.S. Navy chief. The group is divided into five, seven-man teams—we call them ‘ISETs,’ which stands for International Sanctions Enforcement Teams. They are organized based on various regions of the world where the UN has a sanctions regime in place: ISET Alpha is assigned to Asia and the Pacific. ISET Bravo gets Africa; ISET Charlie has Eastern and Central Europe; Latin America and the Caribbean are the purview of ISET Delta; and finally, ISET Echo covers the Middle East, Southeast Asia, and the Persian Gulf region. Each of these five teams is headed by an American. The deputy team leaders are all SAS.”

  It occurred to Newman that the five regional teams Harrod described pretty much covered most of the planet. “OK, Dr. Harrod, I understand the organization, but what do the regional teams in this Sanctions Enforcement Group actually do? Do they gather intelligence and file reports? Do they go out in the field and observe possible violations—what?”

  Harrod looked up from the papers in his hand. “No, Newman. They make sure that those who do violate properly imposed UN sanctions do not persist in efforts to thwart international laws and the will of the international community.”

  “Exactly what does that mean? Does it mean these teams go out and apprehend sanctions violators? Do they have the authority to kill people like Aidid?”

  “Let me put this as straight as I can, Newman. Once the UN executive has determined that an international lawbreaker is repeatedly violating UN resolutions and is a threat to international law and order, and this international criminal refuses to surrender himself to the justice of the UN's tribunals in the Hague, then the ISEG is authorized to take whatever means necessary to stop the violations. As I said before, that includes people like Aidid, who so brutally murdered your brother. You will have total authority to ‘take out’—as you so colorfully phrased it earlier—such people. Do you understand?”

  Newman did. And he suddenly realized why someone very high up in the Marine Corps had decided not to assign any young Marines to the Sanctions Enforcement Group. Newman knew that the Marine Corps had an inherent distaste for this kind of clandestine project because it came so close to crossing the line of Executive Order 12333 forbidding assassinations, signed by President Gerald Ford in 1975 and ratified by every president since that time.

  If, as Harrod had explained, such acts were permissible when sanctioned by the UN and this new protocol, this ISEG team would be able to circumvent the executive order. And if what the National Security Advisor said was true, there was really nothing to keep Newman from killing the terrorist leader responsible for his brother's death in Mogadishu.

  Harrod noticed that Newman didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. But Harrod watched the Marine's eyes, which told him all he wanted to know. When Newman didn't say or do anything, after a moment, Harrod said, “We don't have phones in here yet, so I'm going down the hall to admin and get your colleagues. I'm sure Ms. Dayton has had them long enough to take care of all their paperwork. While I'm gone, go get some more damp paper towels and wipe off three more chairs. This will take awhile.”

  “Wait a minute, Dr. Harrod. Before you get the others, who were those guys following me when I went home to change clothes? You said you would tell me later. Well, it's later.”

  “Fair enough,” said Harrod. “They were part of the ISEG, specifically the European team. All five teams are here in Washington right now for training exercises. Part of their training requires that they be able to tail a target without being observed. Since you were able to observe them while they were following you, they apparently need more training.”

  Before Newman could ask another question, Harrod said, “Look, I've got other things to do today besides answer questions that are going to get answered anyway over the course of this week. Get these chairs clean while I get the others.”

  By the time Harrod returned with the men—all wearing civilian clothes and short hair—Newman had wiped down the remaining four chairs around the circular table and had started on the desk he would soon be using. The National Security Advisor brusquely performed the introductions without the benefit of military rank. “Peter Newman, this is Thomas McDade, Navy; Bartholomew Coombs, Army; and Daniel Robertson, Air Force. Sit down, gen
tlemen.”

  The three each shook hands with Newman and sat down around the table. “Hi, Pete. I'm Bart,” said Coombs. The other two men offered their less formal first names as well. “I'm Tom,” said McDade, and “Call me Danny,” proffered Robertson.

  Coombs, the Army officer, reached inside his suit coat and took out a small notebook and pen, as if preparing to take notes.

  Harrod looked at the young Army officer with the same disgust Newman had witnessed all day: “Put that notebook away. I'll tell you if you need to make a record of something around here. Just pay attention.”

  Coombs did as ordered, but his face began to color beneath his tan. Newman couldn't figure out whether it was anger or embarrassment.

  Harrod continued. “You are here because each of your service secretaries has determined that you are the best people to carry out a very sensitive assignment here at the White House. I am told that you are all on the fast track in your respective services. If you want to stay on that fast track, you will be discreet about the activities you will coordinate. There can be no communications about your work other than to me or to others as I direct. You may not talk to your wives, parents, siblings, girlfriends, or boyfriends about this job. You shall not communicate back to your services about what you do here. If you do so, you will be fired, and I will see to it that your career gets derailed from that fast track. Am I making myself clear?”

  The three newcomers all nodded. Newman noted that the three young officers were wide-eyed. He wondered if they knew the National Security Advisor's nickname.

  “Newman here reports to me. You report to him. That's the chain of command. Here's what you'll be doing.” Harrod dug again into the file folder with the green TOP SECRET cover sheet that he'd been carrying since he and Newman had left the Sit Room. He pulled out a piece of paper and set it down on the table so that they all could read it:

  TOP SECRET

  NATIONAL SECURITY DIRECTIVE 941109

  Date: November 9, 1994

  Subj: United Nations Sanctions Enforcement

  1. (TS) In accord with the Classified Annex to United Nations Security Council Resolution 1606 [RESTRICTED DISTRIBUTION], the United States and the United Kingdom are designated as the International Sanctions Enforcement Powers.

  2. (TS) The International Sanctions Enforcement Powers shall establish an International Sanctions Enforcement Group (ISEG). The Enforcement Powers shall provide such personnel, logistic, command, control, communications, and intelligence support to the ISEG as needed to carry out the mandates of the United Nations executive in accord with the Classified Annex to UN Res. 1606 and international law. The functions and activities of the ISEG shall be undertaken in such a manner that they do not bring discredit or disrepute to the Enforcement Powers or the United Nations executive.

  3. (TS) The United Nations executive shall communicate specific requests for action by the ISEG directly to the heads of state of the Enforcement Powers or to their mutually agreed-upon designees.

  4. (TS) The Prime Minister of the United Kingdom has designated Sir Reginald Bomphrey, secretary of the cabinet, as the UK designated Point of Contact for all ISEG activities.

  5. (TS) The President of the United States has designated the assistant to the President for National Security Affairs, Mr. Simon Harrod, as the U.S. Designated Point of Contact for all ISEG activities.

  6. (TS) By mutual agreement of the United Nations executive and the International Enforcement Powers, the existence and activities of the ISEG shall be held at the highest levels of classification and nondisclosure. Accordingly, all communications pertaining to the ISEG shall bear the following legends:

  U.S.: TOP SECRET. CODE WORD ACCESS REQUIRED, NO DIS.

  UK: MOST SECRET. LIMDIS BY ORDER OF THE PM.

  UN: SEC GEN RESTRICTED. SPECIAL HANDLING REQUIRED.

  7. (TS) the secretaries of state and defense, the director of central intelligence, and the director of the FBI shall provide such support to the ISEG as requested by the National Security Advisor to carry out the terms of this directive.

  8. (S) This directive is exempted from routine downgrading and declassification and shall not be reproduced except by order of the President.

  The document bore the President's signature. There was silence while all four men read the directive through a second time, each trying to figure out how he fit into the words in front of them. Newman finished first and asked the question on everyone's mind. “Dr. Harrod, how is all this going to work?”

  Harrod glanced at his watch. It was approaching 6:00 P.M. and it was already dark outside. He shrugged and started to describe what it is they would do and how they would do it.

  By the time Harrod finished describing how these four officers would coordinate requests from the UN Secretary General for sanctions enforcement, and answering their questions, it was almost 7:30.

  As they concluded, Harrod swept up the classified documents that he had shown them and replaced them in the file folder. “Tomorrow morning I've made arrangements for you to meet the ISEG. All thirty-eight members of the group are being housed in a secure facility at Andrews Air Force Base for this phase of their training.

  “You should arrive at the main gate between 6:00 and 6:15 A.M. That way you won't have to fight the traffic on the Beltway. Tell the security people that you need to be escorted to Area 35. Show them your White House pass. All four of you, spend the day over there with the team; get to know them. They are scheduled to fly back to Fort Bragg tomorrow night at 6:00 P.M. You should all be back here tomorrow night at 7:00 P.M.

  “Bring some jeans and casual clothes to change into when you get back here. Why?” he asked, reading their questioning eyes. “First, you'll fit in better around here. Second, the team from WHCA will be here at 7:30 to install your communications equipment, secure phones, and the rest of the stuff you're going to need in here. I want to get that done after the rest of the crowd is gone. I don't want people asking too many questions about what you're up to here.” As he said this, Harrod gestured around the office. “Any questions?” he asked.

  “Many, but only two for now.” It was Newman again. “How do we get funding for these activities? There must be some kind of congressional oversight.”

  Harrod looked at Newman with new regard. “Very sharp, Newman. Of course you four continue to draw your normal military pay. As far as your services are concerned, you're on detail to the NSC staff. The U.S. personnel in the ISEG are all carried as ‘detached duty’ with their parent departments and agencies. I suppose the Brits do it the same way, since all their people come from the SAS where they've been doing it this way for years.

  “As for funding the training and operational activities of the ISEG and the ISETs, that's all handled by a special allocation from the British prime minister and the UN Secretary General. Unlike us, the PM and SG both have discretionary accounts that don't have to be reported to anybody. They both have contributed cash to fund the accounts that you'll be handling from here. Any expenditure of more than $100,000 has to be approved by me. I expect the books to balance. And I will periodically conduct an audit of how you are managing the funds.

  “As of right now”—at this point Harrod consulted a piece of paper from his pocket—“we have a total of $7.47 million in three overseas bank accounts to last us until the end of the year. The secretary general has assured the President that on January 1, the accounts will have an additional $240 million placed in them for ISEG activities.”

  Newman and his staff looked at each other. Did Harrod just say 240 million?

  “Now, as for congressional oversight, we won't be going up to Capitol Hill to describe any of what the ISEG does. In fact, as far as the foreign relations committees, the armed services committees, and the intelligence committees—and all their staffs—are concerned, the ISEG doesn't exist.” Harrod stopped to see how the men reacted to that statement. He could see the wheels turning in their minds, but no one spoke.

  “And, if push
comes to shove, we still have some friends up there on the Hill, in both parties and in both houses of Congress. These friends share the President's vision for a well-ordered new world. But we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.

  “Meanwhile,” Harrod said, turning to McDade, Coombs, and Robertson, “have you taken care of all the paperwork?” All three nodded. “And you have your White House badges and parking passes for the Ellipse?” They nodded again.

  “Good. Newman, make sure they know the combinations to all the silly locks on the door so that somebody can get in if you get run over by a truck tonight. I'll see you all here tomorrow at 7:00 P.M. when you've finished at Andrews.”

  After the National Security Advisor trundled out, the four officers sat back down at the round table to exchange phone numbers and addresses, explaining as they did so what they had been doing the previous Friday when they were abruptly jerked out of their assignments and ordered to duty at the NSC.

  Lieutenant Tom McDade had been an instructor in Coronado, California, at the Basic Underwater Demolition/SEALs School—known throughout the Navy as BUD/S. Harrod had said that all of the officers were veterans of the Gulf War, and they were. But McDade had also been in the Panama dustup back in December '89. His SEAL team had been hastily dispatched to Rodman Naval Station in Balboa Harbor, and given the mission of making sure that Manuel Noriega didn't manage to slip away from Panama on something that flew or floated. McDade and his fellow SEALs had managed to disable all the escape crafts of the former dictator. But the drill had cost the lives of four SEALs. McDade said somewhat wistfully, “I've been hoping for orders to join SEAL Team 6. Instead, it looks like I'm gonna be pushing papers at the White Palace.”

  Until the previous Friday, Captain Bart Coombs had been limping around on a crutch, the result of a parachute mishap during a Delta training operation at Camp Dawson in West Virginia. Until his knee fully healed, Coombs had been temporarily assigned to the Delta headquarters staff at “Wally World,” the nickname the Delta operators gave to their flashy new Special Operations Training facility at Fort Bragg, North Carolina. During Desert Shield/Desert Storm, Coombs had been a “Scud Buster,” dropped deep into Iraq to pinpoint mobile SCUD launchers for air strikes before the Russian-built missiles could be launched against Allied troops or Israel. His Delta squadron had deployed for six weeks to Somalia after the shoot-out in October '93 in which Jim Newman had been killed. Now he was also anguishing over the prospect of being shackled to a desk at the White House for two years. “I'd rather be in Mogadishu or some other cesspool,” he groaned.