by Oliver North
AMBUSH
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Euphrates River
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15 km N of Abu Kamal, Syria
Wednesday, 8 March 1995
1830 Hours, Local
The tiny outboard motor ran smoothly and quietly, pushing the little dhow north, up the Euphrates toward Turkey. Samir sat in the stern and Newman in the bow. The Marine wished he had a GPS so that he could plot their course up the sluggish river with greater accuracy than he could manage with his little survival compass and the old National Geographic map. But now that it was nearly completely dark, he had put away the map and compass and both men were intent on watching the dark water for obstacles, police boats, and other watercraft—particularly smugglers.
Newman and Samir had found the boat tied up at a small dock at the river's edge, less than fifteen minutes after leaving Habib. They had rowed it out into the river before starting the ancient motor.
For a long time, neither man spoke. There were some other boats on the river. Samir had said that they were likely fishermen. On occasion someone from another boat would yell to them in the darkness. Newman guessed it was the Syrian equivalent of the universal fishermen's query—“Are they biting where you are?” Samir would call back to them.
Samir had said they would motor until they reached a small riverside inn at Dablan. The Marine had tried to figure out how long it would take them to reach the little town. Though it was only fifty kilometers by road from Abu Kamal, Newman could see that by following the river's meandering course and endless switchbacks, and estimating that they were making only about ten knots headway, he computed they wouldn't reach their first day's destination until midnight. Hunched over in the bow of the little craft, he was once again aware of the pain of his injuries. He was looking forward to lying down and changing the bandages on his badly burned arm.
Fortunately, Samir had taken this river route many times in the course of the family trading business, he told Newman. He knew it well. He could tell how fast they were traveling by checking his watch and noting what landmarks they were passing. Now, for example, he said, they were passing Saliniyah. Just ahead to the northwest were the lights of Kharaij, and beyond that—about fifteen kilometers in the distance—was Dablan.
Newman awoke with a start as the bow of the boat touched the shore. Samir had stopped the motor and was standing in the rear of the dhow. Newman, now fully alert, jumped ashore and helped the younger man tie the small boat to a tree at the river's edge. After a short walk of about 150 meters, they stood outside a tiny hotel—it looked to Newman as though it only had seven or eight rooms—near the marketplace, which by morning, Samir said, would be bustling with buyers and sellers.
Samir went inside to make arrangements while Newman stayed outside and watched from the darkness of a small grove of citrus trees. The hotel looked at least a century old, with high ceilings and wonderfully carved balustrades and cornices on the balcony overlooking the Euphrates. The little cubicle, just inside the front door, was like something from a museum. Samir rang an antique bronze bell to summon the manager. A few minutes later, a portly, elderly man entered the lobby from his personal quarters across the hall. He was wearing an undershirt, black trousers, and was pulling up his suspenders as he squeezed into the small space between the tiny cubby holes for mail and the large guest register on the black marble counter. After registering, Samir was given a key by the manager, who went back inside his own quarters and closed the door.
Once the door to the manager's apartment closed, Samir stepped outside and motioned for Newman to follow him. They went up the stairs. The old wooden steps creaked and groaned as the two men climbed them. At the landing at the top, they turned down the hall, and Samir opened the door to the room with the number 3 painted on the jamb. He switched on the light. Samir gestured toward the two beds and offered Newman his choice. He chose the one in the corner, where he had a commanding view of the entire room, in case they had unwelcome visitors. Newman was surprised to notice that the hotel room had a telephone. He picked up the receiver and heard a dial tone.
“Hey, this is great. Do you think I can just dial out and make my call?” he asked.
Samir walked over and read the Arabic writing beside the telephone.
“Yes, it is like the big cities. You dial ‘9’ for an outside line, then dial the country code and area code, then the local number. I, too, am surprised that this small hotel has such modern telephone service.”
“Well, good. I'll make a call, but first I want to change the bandages on my hand. Do you still have some of that antibiotic ointment?”
Samir nodded and dug out a tube of the medication from his small bag. Newman unraveled the bandages, wincing a couple of times when the bandage pulled away the scab where the burn was healing. It was still red and there were small pockets of pus where his burned hand was infected.
As he pulled off the old bandage, he used a small towel to wipe it clean with some running water from the sink. Then he squeezed the ointment from the tube, rubbing it gently, but generously, into the open sores. He applied some ointment to a fresh bandage and placed it on the burn, wrapping it all several times with gauze around his hand. Samir ripped the end of the bandage into two strips so he could tie the bandage to Newman's hand.
As Samir was picking up the old bandages and disposing of them in the trash receptacle, Newman said, “What time is it?
“Twenty minutes after midnight. You need to get some sleep, for we must be underway early in the morning.”
“I will, but first I must make a phone call. It's only twenty minutes after 5:00 P.M. in Washington. I must call this person before he goes home.”
After two rings, Newman heard, “Grisham.”
Newman replied, “Please go EncryptionLok-3 secure on Papa, Yankee, Mike, Eight, Two, Seven.”
The two waited momentarily as their devices synchronized.
“General Grisham! This is Lieutenant Colonel Newman. Am I ever glad to hear your voice!”
“Pete, is that you? Are you all right? Where are you? Oliver North just called and told me you were in trouble. Your wife called me too. What's going on?”
Newman quickly related the events since Monday and his concerns about a serious compromise of the mission. Most telling of all, he said, was what had happened earlier that day, right after he had been in contact with the National Security Advisor. “Iraqi authorities surrounded the bank from where I made the call. I don't know whom I can trust. I thought the problem was at the UN in New York. Now, I'm not so sure that it isn't at the White House. All I know is that I need some help.”
Grisham paused a moment before answering. Then the General said, “It may be even worse than you think. About an hour ago I received a flash Interpol fax from our Marine security guard detachment in Paris. Interpol has put out an ‘International Wanted Notice’ for an IRA terrorist suspected of placing a bomb aboard an MD-80 chartered by UN Humanitarian Relief. According to the notice, the MD-80 blew up on Monday while transiting Iraq. The dead or alive notice is circulating all over the planet as we speak. Right above all the relevant details about age, hair color, size, and weight and the name, Gilbert Duncan, is your picture.”
“Oh no,” said Newman, a knot twisting in his stomach. “That's the alias documentation the UN issued to me.”
“I know,” said the General.
“If that's the case, I won't be safe even after I get to Turkey.”
“I think you will. You see, Colonel, it's time for me to inspect our NATO contingency plans for Turkey. Saddam has apparently decided to create his own final solution to his problem with the Iraqi resistance. His Republican Guards are roaming at will all over the no-go zone north of Mosul. For whatever reason, the White House has decided not to give the INC the air cover they were promised, but I can certainly justify an urgent flight to Incirlik to make sure that our NATO preparations are in place in case Saddam sends his tanks across the Tu
rkish border.
“By the way,” General Grisham continued, “when your wife called she said that you wanted her to have North get hold of Bill Goode. How do you know him?” asked Grisham.
“I've never met him, General. Lieutenant Colonel North mentioned him. Said that Goode knows everyone out here and might be able to help if I get in a tight spot. I had already figured out that I was in a pretty tight spot before you told me about that wanted poster. Do you know Goode?”
“I know him,” replied the General. “When he was with the Agency, he was the best they had. None better. He got put out to pasture when Colonel North got all cross-wired with the Congress back in the '80s. I'll try to find Goode and get him out there. It'd be good to see him again anyway. If I leave Andrews in the next two hours, I should be in Incirlik by noon tomorrow.”
“General, may I ask a very big favor?” Newman asked.
“Go ahead, son.”
“Is there any way you can bring Rachel with you? I'm concerned about her. I may have made a mistake calling to let her know I'm OK, and I may have placed her in jeopardy.”
“Consider it done. She's a military dependent and is allowed to travel on space-A—and I've certainly got space available.”
“Thank you sir. Now, what about the rest of the ISEG? And is there any word on survivors from the ISET we put into Tikrit? Did Dr. Harrod at least get the QRF turned around and out of Northern Iraq before Saddam sent his Republican Guards up north?” Newman asked.
Again Grisham hesitated. He'd read the cable and hated the words that were about to come out of his mouth. “There is no pretty way to say this, Pete. They're all dead.”
Newman was stunned. He had specifically asked Harrod to turn the fifteen-man force around and get it back to Turkey when he had called early that very morning. “What about Sergeant Major Gabbard?” asked Newman, hoping that someone in his small force had survived. “He was at Incirlik when I last talked to him.”
“I'll call General Harris at the 331st Expeditionary Air Group right away and see to it that the sergeant major is protected,” the general said.
“How about Captain Dan Robertson, in my NSC office—”
“He was killed in a one-car crash on George Washington Parkway on the way into the White House this morning,” Grisham replied.
“Oh dear God,” said Newman.
“Look Pete,” the General interrupted. “This isn't your fault. I don't know what's going on here, but it's pretty clear that your mission has been seriously sabotaged. Keep making your way toward the Syria-Turkey border—but don't take any chances. If you can, contact General James Harris at Incirlik. I'll call him right now and tell him to expect your call. You call him in ten minutes. Use your EncryptionLok-3 on setting Yankee, Papa, Hotel, Four, One, Niner. I'll call him on secure right now to expect your call. Here's his phone number.”
Newman motioned for Samir to give him a ballpoint pen and wrote the number the general gave him on the palm of his hand. When the two men broke the connection, Newman put the EncryptionLok-3 back in his pocket and said to Samir, “Tell me when ten minutes have passed. I need to make one more call.” The young man nodded in response.
When ten minutes had passed, Samir sat up on his mattress and signaled Newman by tapping his watch. Once again the Marine connected the EncryptionLok-3 and dialed the number he had written on his unbandaged palm. The phone answered immediately.
“Harris.”
Newman said, “Going EncryptionLok-3 secure.”
“Roger. Wait.”
When the secure connection was assured, Newman said, “General, this is Lieutenant Colonel Newman. General Grisham told me to call.”
“Newman, I'm glad to hear that you're alive. I understand that you're making your way up the Euphrates. That's as good a route out of there as any. It's been a smuggling route for a thousand years, and the smugglers wouldn't still be using it if they couldn't get through. But I wouldn't try to get to Birecik. The Turks have a big military and police presence there. Instead, see if you can get to the port of Iskenderun. Make your way to the area known as ‘The 25 Piers.’ When you get to the piers, go to the one that corresponds to the date—if it's the tenth, go to pier 10 … the eleventh, go to pier 11. You got it?”
“Yes sir.”
“Good. Now the number you just called is my satellite portable. I always have it with me and it's always on. That's how you get hold of me. If you get in a real bind, close to the border or on this side of it, maybe we can launch our Air Force SAR birds and come get you. I'd like to pull a Marine out of the soup and kill a few of Assad's goons in the process. OK?”
“Roger that, sir.”
“Don't hesitate to call. Out here.”
As Newman terminated the call, he looked across the room at Samir, who was flailing his arms wildly. Newman had been so engrossed in the phone call that he hadn't heard the sirens. Some kind of police, fire, or emergency vehicles were coming their way, and by the sound of the sirens, they were getting close—fast.
Samir grabbed the phone, slammed the receiver down, and pulled the EncryptionLok-3 from the wires. “This is how they find you!” he shouted. “You must destroy it.” Samir threw the EncryptionLok-3 to the floor and stomped on it. As he was stomping the instrument, it suddenly began to smolder.
Newman stood there dumbfounded, but immediately knew that Samir's intuition was right. Somehow they must have changed the EncryptionLok-3s so that they could track him when he used it. He heard the police car squeal to a stop outside. Grabbing their things, Newman pointed Samir to their only possible escape—the window. It overlooked a flat roof that was thankfully over the empty kitchen and not the manager's quarters. The two men could hear the police or soldiers downstairs, banging on the manager's door. They dropped the five feet from their windowsill to the roof and then ran to the edge.
“It's too far down,” Samir whispered to Newman as the two men peered over the edge. A puddle of light suddenly appeared on the ground below as a light went on in the manager's quarters.
“We have no choice,” Newman said. He shuffled along the edge of the roof to where a large tree overhung the structure. He flung himself out, clawing for a large branch. Pain raced through Newman's burn-damaged arm as he moved hand over hand to the trunk and then slid down to the ground.
A few seconds later, he heard Samir grunt as his body hit the tree trunk—and then he, too, was down. The pain in Newman's injured hand was intense, but the sounds from inside the hotel were enough to motivate both men to keep moving.
They could hear the voices of the police shouting at the innkeeper to reveal what room the American was in. He knew of no American, the innkeeper protested, and told them that only two rooms were occupied, number one on the ground floor and number three, on the second floor.
The authorities then spent several minutes banging on the door to room one and rousting out the newlywed couple—who were terrified at the intrusion of their honeymoon.
The police finally burst through the locked door to room number three and rushed inside, guns drawn, ready to shoot. Finding the main room empty, they checked the bathroom. In a small wastebasket they discovered a pile of bloody, pus-encrusted bandages. In the bedroom, the telephone had been knocked from a small table on which it had rested, and some of its wiring looked as if it had been ripped out of the phone. On the floor beside the telephone was a pile of smoldering rubbish that smelled acrid and its lingering smoke hurt their eyes. Then they noticed the open window and went to look out.
Meanwhile, Newman and Samir were half-stumbling toward the river. They clambered into the boat and began to paddle as silently as they could toward the middle.
Their breathing sounded as loud as a sawmill to Newman. When they were in the middle of the river, Samir pulled on the cord to start the motor. Nothing. He pulled again, and the old motor caught. Newman thought its sound was as sweet as a symphony, right at that moment. Samir pointed the bow upstream.
By now there were mo
re than a dozen Syrian Interior Ministry police officers searching the buildings adjacent to the small hotel. It did not occur to them to search the river until they heard the sound of a motorboat starting up, well out on the river. Several of the officers raced to the water's edge but when they arrived, though they could hear the faint hum of the motor, it was impossible for them to tell if the boat had gone north or south. The officer in charge of the police detail was furious. Damascus had said that an “American spy” was at the hotel. Clearly someone had fled the room that his men had searched. He had to bring back something to show that he had made every effort to capture the American. So he had his men arrest the night manager.
Newman sat in the bow with his head in his hands. They had escaped again—by an even narrower margin than last time. Would they be so fortunate next time?
National Security Agency
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Fort Meade, MD
Wednesday, 8 March 1995
1750 Hours, Local
Jules Wilson hung up his phone and stared out the window, mulling over what he had just been told by an old friend.
Lieutenant General George Grisham had been brutally frank: “Jules, there is something terribly wrong with your EL-3 encryption systems, and I'm ordering all Marine units to cease using them effective immediately until you get to the bottom of the problem.”
Grisham had gone on to specify for the number-two man at the National Security Agency what he had learned from Newman. Grisham was convinced that “his Marine in the field” was being compromised by the EncryptionLok-3 device that he was using. So, he had called Wilson to check on it.