by Oliver North
An hour later, the ISEG filed back into their hangar for the mission brief from McDade, Coombs, Weiskopf, and finally Newman. As the two-hour briefing and discussion wound up, Newman stood in front of the map of Iraq and the surrounding region. “Let's run over the high points one last time. If all goes according to plan, the MD-80 will enter Iraqi air space behind a flight of F-16s and EA-6Bs. We believe Iraqi radar operators will think the MD-80 is the tanker that normally accompanies the no-fly enforcement missions. We'll drop ISET Echo from thirty thousand feet. The Exit Point for Echo is here, about forty kilometers west of Tikrit and ten klicks north of Lake Tharthar. In theory, we'll be well to the west of any SAM sites, and the hope is that the EA-6Bs will guide a HARM down the throat of any Iraqi crazy enough to keep their radar on.
“Echo, your mission is pretty straightforward once you're on the ground. You move under cover of darkness as close as you can to the presidential palace at Tikrit, ID the building where the terrorist convention is taking place, and illuminate the building with the LTD. Once the target is lit, call us and we'll send the Global Hawk to make a house call. Then be prepared for the havoc that'll follow.
“Once you're out the rear hatch, the MD-80 will return here and fuel up. We're going to try to re-position it at Siirt, the closest Turkish air base to the Iraqi border, as a mobile command post. If the Turks agree, ISETs Bravo, Charlie, and Delta will move up there with Captain Coombs and me. Delta, you'll provide countersurveillance and security for the command post. Bravo and Charlie, you're the QRE We're going to beg, borrow, or steal some four-by-fours for you in case you have to make a dash across the border to help Echo. Alpha, you will remain here at Incirlik with Lieutenant McDade to assist in securing and launching the Global Hawk. Once the UAV is gone, you will help in extracting Echo if we have to use our fallback option.
“We have two methods for getting Echo out of Iraq. The preferred method applies if the UAV works as planned and there's a subsequent power struggle for control of the Iraqi government. Under those circumstances, Echo will simply don native garb, commandeer a vehicle, drive north to Mosul, and link up with the QRF in the area between Mosul and Zakhu. Once you're north of Mosul, you're fairly safe because the Kurds and the Iraqi National Congress resistance forces control the territory.
“Our fallback plan is a whole lot more complicated, but we may need it if Saddam somehow survives and there is a full-scale manhunt for Echo. If that happens, Echo will go underground in the daylight and, after dark, head due west to this area here, marked on your maps and preprogrammed into your GPS receivers as ‘Checkpoint X-ray.’ You'll notice on your maps that it's slightly higher ground, hill 837, in the desert about 125 klicks east of the Syrian border. That's where Echo will call in the air drop for Fultons.”
“Hey, at Disney World they make you pay for rides like that,” cracked someone in the back of the room.
They all knew about the Fulton Surface-to-Air Recovery System, and each had been trained in how to use STARS, though having done it once, few ever waited in line to do it again. The device was so high-risk that it was used only to extricate Special Ops teams so deep in enemy territory that there was no other way of getting them out.
Each STARS canister contained the equipment to extract two men and it could be dropped from almost any tactical aircraft. Once dropped, the canister deployed a small parachute to prevent damage to the equipment inside. Each canister contained helium bottles, a balloon, and a five-hundred-foot nylon line with one end affixed to the balloon and the other fastened to parachute harnesses sewn into two recovery suits for the personnel to be rescued. The procedure required the men to inflate the balloon with helium after strapping themselves into the suits. Then an MC-130, equipped with guard cables and a V-shaped nose yoke, would swoop in low, snag the nylon line, and snatch the harnessed troops off the ground. The men would then be hauled into the rear ramp of the rescue aircraft.
“There are other contingency plans, rendezvous points, emergency exfiltration orders, and the radio frequency plan for the operation in the packets of materials Captain Coombs put on your seats. Are there any questions?”
“Yes, sir,” it was Specialist First Class Maloof, of ISET Echo. “What altitude did you say we're going to be at when we exit the MD-80?”
“Depending on wind and weather, between twenty-five and thirty thousand,” Newman replied. “You'll have internal oxygen on the aircraft until we arrive in the vicinity of the exit point. Then you'll switch to your personal oxygen bottles for the ride down.”
“How far are we going to have to hike to get to Tikrit?” asked another Echo trooper.
“Well, I'll put you out as close as we can without risking the bird. Once you're out, glide as far as possible toward Tikrit. When you get on the ground, bury your chutes and start overland. You have the photos of the building you have to illuminate. Remember, you have to have everything set up by the morning of the sixth.”
There were no other questions, though Newman knew from experience that there would be hundreds more as the men went through the op plan and thought about the things they'd have to do in the next week. Just before they were dismissed, McDade came up again and reminded them to read carefully the intelligence material in their packets.
As Newman and Weiskopf walked back to the office space on the other side of the hangar, the Delta Force captain said, “You think we'll get the go-ahead for this, or will some whiz kid in Washington pull the plug on us again?”
“I sure hope this is a go, Josh. I can't tell you how much I'd like to be on the ground at Tikrit when that Global Hawk slams into the palace. I have to admit: for me, it's personal. I want to get Aidid for killing my brother, and bin Laden, for helping him do it.”
“Bin Laden. Isn't he the guy that was behind the New York Trade Center bombing in '93?”
Newman nodded. “But this time we're gonna get him.”
“Well, I'll drink to that,” Weiskopf said, raising his half-empty plastic water bottle and taking a swig.
Newman Home
________________________________________
Falls Church, VA
Saturday, 25 February 1995
2230 Hours, Local
Rachel wondered what her husband was doing right now, and where he was. He had taken her out to dinner the Saturday night before he departed, and apologized profusely for being so caught up in his work that he was neglecting her. “I'm planning on being back no later than the middle of March,” he had told her. That was more information than she usually got from him. Rachel didn't have the heart to tell her husband of her discussions with Sandy and her attorney about a possible divorce. Later that evening, she and Peter had enjoyed a romantic and passionate night.
And then, on Sunday morning, he had gotten up at 0600 and asked her to drop him at Andrews AFB. As usual when they were together, he drove, and even though the Washington Beltway was virtually deserted, she noticed that he was constantly checking the rear view mirrors.
“What's the matter P. J., afraid of getting a ticket?” she had asked playfully. His only response had been to put a finger to his lips mysteriously and to turn up the car radio.
A short while later, after crossing the Potomac on the Wilson Bridge, he exited onto Indian Head Highway. “Rache, let's stop and get some breakfast. My flight isn't for another hour and I'm hungry.”
They pulled into the McDonald's at the intersection with Brinkley Road. Instead of getting in line to order, he headed to a seat by the window. “I'm going to make some notes for while I'm gone,” he said. “Would you order for us, please?”
By the time she returned with the food, he was staring out the window at the parking lot where they had left their car. The fast food restaurant was getting busy, and she thought he was worried about his car. “Hey big guy, relax. If somebody hits that old Tahoe of yours, it'll give us an excuse to buy a new one.”
He didn't even smile. Instead, when she sat down across from him, he slid a cell phone across the
table to her. Underneath the cell phone was a three-by-five card with his writing on it.
“Listen to me, Rache. This cell phone is for you to use if for some reason you don't hear from me by March 8. On the card are three numbers. The first number is for that cell phone. The second number is for Lieutenant Colonel Oliver North—you remember him from Camp Lejeune, when I was in 3/8, ten … no, eleven years ago. The third number is for Lieutenant General George Grisham, my boss at HQMC, before I got sent to the Snake Pit.”
“Snake pit?”
“The White House.”
“P. J., what's going on? Are you in some kind of trouble?”
“Not yet, and I don't intend to be either. But I am concerned about what this White House has me doing—not because I'm in physical danger, but because I don't trust these people one iota. Don't use that cell phone for anyone but those two men. And don't call either of them on any phone except that cell phone. Also, don't use it inside the house. I don't know whether the house is bugged or not.”
“The house is bugged?” Rachel gasped. “What kind of people are you working with that would bug our house, Peter? What are you doing? Where are you going?”
“I'm going on a very secret mission to Turkey. It's not dangerous, but it's politically very risky. If something goes wrong, I suppose I could end up in Turkish custody, and you might not hear about it until it hit the news. If I haven't contacted you by the eighth, call Colonel North. He'll know what to do. That number is his pager. Leave the phone on, and if he doesn't call you back in three or four hours, try General Grisham's number—but only if North hasn't called you back. Knowing North, he probably sleeps with his pager.”
Peter managed a little smile then, but it did nothing to reassure her. An hour later, she had dropped him at the VIP terminal at Andrews and he had kissed her good-bye.
Now, six days after that surreal departure, the breakfast sandwich she hadn't touched was still in the refrigerator downstairs. She was sitting on the edge of their bed while outside a late-winter storm pelted the windows with freezing rain. Rachel couldn't shake the cold she was feeling; having already put on a robe, she now went to stand under the overhead sunlamp in the bathroom.
She sighed. Rachel felt totally off balance in their relationship. Peter had said some special things to her at dinner last week—and now she was even having second thoughts about whether to move forward with the divorce and a life and career of her own. He had confided in her, something very rare for him. He told her that he wasn't happy in his new assignment, and he was beginning to see what really mattered in life. He had confessed to thinking long and hard about their marriage following their disastrous Christmas. He said that she really mattered most to him—and she had melted in his arms.
But after he had gone, some of the same doubts resurfaced. All week she wondered what she should do.
Her friend Sandy hadn't been much help. It turned out that Rachel didn't realize what a religious zealot Sandy was.
First she had pressured Rachel to admit it was wrong to get a divorce. She told Rachel that God hated divorce—He loves people, she was quick to add, but He hates divorce. “The Bible encourages people to work out their problems with God's help. Just stay committed to making the marriage work. If two people want a marriage to work, it will,” she had told Rachel.
Rachel told Sandy her advice sounded kind of naïve, that Sandy was operating on a different wavelength. Still, she was persistent, and Rachel finally gave Sandy a reluctant commitment that she would postpone any move regarding a divorce for at least a month.
Rachel walked back into her bedroom and sat down on the bed once more, still thinking about what her friend had said. “Well, what am I supposed to do in the meantime?” Rachel had asked her friend.
“Why, just use that time to pray and trust God.”
I don't even know what that means, Rachel thought. Sandy had invited her several times to attend an evening Bible study with some other career women in her church. Finally Rachel got so weary of saying no that she went just to keep Sandy from nagging her.
She reflected on that experience. Wasn't as bad as I thought, she told herself. In fact, I kind of enjoyed it. It sure was different than I expected.
For one thing, there was no pressure. None of the other women made Rachel feel uncomfortable. For about forty minutes the women read from one of St. Paul's letters in the New Testament, and then discussed its relevance for their lives. Then they prayed. The group leader had asked for requests that could be shared with the women, but Rachel felt too self-conscious to say anything. The other women were not as reserved. Without embarrassment they offered several explicit, personal prayer requests—a son on drugs, a husband who spends his evenings watching pornography on the Internet, a sister facing a mastectomy, another woman facing a layoff. Rachel was amazed at the ease with which they laid bare their hearts.
Interestingly, some of the women said that they wanted to praise God for answers to prayer—and they told how things had improved in their lives.
Yeah … I wish things were that simple, Rachel thought. She remembered how she had admired those women for their faith, all of them Christians like Sandy. But Rachel didn't even know what it meant to have faith. She wasn't a religious person, having grown up in a more or less secular home. Neither of her parents had been to church much, although she had memories of her grandmother being that kind of person—one who claimed to know God and felt at ease talking about that aspect of her life. Rachel identified herself as a Christian, in the way one would say, “I'm an American” or “I am Scots-Irish.” It had more to do with her family background and overall culture. She felt that she was a Christian because she had grown up in “Christian America” and held most of the same values as those who had more clearly identified themselves as Christians—like the Golden Rule or being against murder and other crimes, and obeying the Ten Commandments. Rachel wondered parenthetically how many of them she'd broken.
Her husband was no help when it came to personal faith in God. Peter had always been such a self-sufficient person that he'd probably never considered God as having any particular relevance to his life. And his parents were much like her own—not religious, and only in church on special occasions like Easter and Christmas because it was traditional—not because the family drew any other meaning from it.
Yet… Rachel recalled how, at the funeral of Peter's brother Jim, there was an officer who had presented the family with the folded American flag and took just a moment to share details of Jim's odyssey of faith. How could that officer know for a fact that there was a place like heaven—and that Jim was there? How can anyone be sure?
Sandy is like that, she recalled. Sandy had that same quiet, inner assurance and seemed to be at peace with herself.
Rachel stopped brushing her hair and stood up. She glanced at the small alarm clock on her bedside table and decided to give in to an intuitive persuasion. She reached over and picked up the phone. After two rings she heard a familiar voice.
“Hi, Sandy, it's me.… I hope I didn't wake you.”
Sandy laughed. “Are you kidding? Our teenagers are still doing homework, and my husband is watching a ‘Seinfeld’ rerun. What's up?”
“Oh, nothing … just wanted to talk. Peter's still away and—”
“I hope you're not still thinking about divorce.”
Rachel chuckled. “The way you came at me the other day, I don't know if I have what it takes to fight God over divorce.”
There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line. “Rachel, honey … I didn't mean to come down on you with all that fire and brimstone routine, but I was so scared for you … and what you were going to give up. And I had just heard Dr. Dobson or somebody on the radio that morning talking about how God hates divorce—”
“No, Sandy, you didn't hurt my feelings. I can understand how God—assuming there is one—would be against divorce. I guess …”
“What is it you're really afraid of, Rachel?”
“I don't know … honestly, Sandy, I don't know. I'm really mixed up. I guess I'm scared because I don't have the kind of assurance that you have, you know? I mean … when you asked me that question the other day—”
“When I asked you, ‘If you died tonight, do you know for certain that you would go to heaven?’”
“Yeah, that one. I got kind of mad at you for asking it. I thought you were being pretty presumptuous. I mean, how can anyone know for sure?”
“Well, do you believe that there is a God?”
“Yeah … I suppose I do, y'know? I mean, look around at the universe and everything—how could it all just happen? I guess that deep inside I do believe in God.”
“OK, and do you remember what we were talking about in Bible study when you went with me?”
Rachel tried to recall the subject that evening. “Wasn't it about what St. Paul said in … uh … was it Romans? In the Bible?”
“Hey, you were paying attention!” Sandy said, then added, “Do you remember those verses where Paul talked about how everyone in the world, not just churchgoers, have sort of a built-in antenna that tells them that there really is a God?”
Rachel laughed, “Is that what it says in the Bible—built-in antenna?”
“I'm paraphrasing,” Sandy said with a chuckle. “Anyway, what he said was that everyone knows at least some truth about God because God has revealed His existence and something about Himself to every culture. There's something within our hearts that understands that God exists—that the invisible qualities of His infinite love, eternal power, and righteousness all have a ring of authenticity in our hearts and minds. That's because He established something called ‘moral law’ in us. Deep down, we know the difference between right and wrong because God is righteous and we aren't.”