Mission Compromised

by Oliver North

  But despite what was on the TV, this time, when the general answered his phone, the news was better. “Mrs. Newman, I've talked to your husband,” the General had said. “He's all right, and trying to make his way back to safety. I'm headed to Turkey this evening to make sure that he knows he has friends out there. I don't mean to intrude on your personal life, but he asked me to bring you with me. I think it would be safer for you. Would you like to go?”

  “He called you? When? How long ago—did he say where he was? Is he all right?”

  “Mrs. Newman, I talked to him within the past thirty minutes. He said he was all right, but I can't tell you much more. That's when he asked me to bring you with me—if you wish to go, of course.”

  “I'd like that very much, General.”

  “Good. Tell me where you are. I'm going to send some Marines to pick you up right away and take you to Andrews Air Force Base.”

  For a few minutes after takeoff, General Grisham had patiently answered her questions—and there were many—right down to why a Marine General was flying on an Air Force C-17 transport. He chuckled and said, “This aircraft is actually used for Special Air Missions by the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The pilots needed some long-range over-water navigational experience so they are making a ‘training flight’ to Turkey.”

  After they had been airborne for half an hour, the stewards served a hot meal. Rachel turned on her reading light and opened her Bible. In minutes she was asleep.

  General Grisham motioned for the Marine major who was sitting behind them and said quietly, “John, ask the crew chief to dim the cabin lights and get a blanket to cover her up. And when you get that done, have Staff Sergeant Winsat bring me those briefcases full of paper.” The General spent the next four hours bent over his tray table reading “Action Items” under his purview at the Marine Headquarters. Despite the “URGENT ACTION REQUIRED” label on most of them, none seemed as pressing as the husband of the woman sleeping across the aisle.

  International Airport

  Damascus, Syria

  Wednesday, 8 March 1995

  2350 Hours, Local

  General Komulakov's aircraft had arrived at Assad International Airport in Damascus at a little after 4:00 P.M. At his request, the airport authorities had parked it at the far end of the terminal, beyond the row of Syrian Arab Airlines planes.

  Instead of going to the Syrian Foreign Ministry as would be expected of a senior UN diplomat in the region to help resolve the bloody conflict just across the border in northern Iraq, he went directly to the Russian Embassy on Omar ben Al-khattab Street in downtown Damascus in a shiny black Lada with Russian diplomatic plates. He told his aides to stay behind with the UN aircraft to monitor communications.

  Komulakov knew this embassy well. He had been assigned to the KGB's Damascus Residency—here at the chancellery. As a relatively junior Line F officer in Department V—the Special Tasks unit—he had the job of recruiting terrorists to work for the Soviet cause. Komulakov had been credited with convincing Dr. George Habash and Dr. Wadi Haddad—leaders of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine—to ply their deadly trade in support of Moscow's agenda. Those who had succeeded Komulakov here in Damascus revered him for his skill and success. It was to them that he made his request. They owed him, and he knew it.

  “Colonel Grankin, you are now resident here in Damascus. Do we still have the secure hangar at the airport?”

  “Yes, General, though it is much in need of repairs,” replied Russia's senior intelligence officer in Damascus.

  “No matter,” answered the General. They changed the name from KGB to SVR and hired whiners. Where do they get these soft, mushy types like Grankin—from the Finance Directorate? Komulakov said, “Please, dear Grankin, find for me ten well-trained PFLP members who can be trusted. Have them report to the hangar at midnight.”

  “Yes, General,” said the SVR chief. Grankin had a doubtful look on his face, but Komulakov didn't care.

  “And you, Major Radchenko, you are now the local representative of Department V?”

  “Yes General,” said the incredibly large Russian with the huge head and extremely big smile.

  Komulakov smiled and said, “You were one of my best captains. You handled some of my most difficult tasks—like that operation in Poland, with that Solidarity priest and that capitalist in Lisbon back in '86. You should be at least a colonel by now. Whom did you alienate to get assigned to this, ah, remote area?”

  The big Russian stopped smiling. “Afghanistan.”

  “Well, not to worry, Major. This is your chance to improve your record,” replied Komulakov. “Do you still have two helicopters available, or have Moscow Center's budget cuts eliminated your ability to do your job?”

  “We still have two helicopters, MI-8s, and they both work—when the pilots are sober.”

  “Good. I am going to need them. We are hunting for a major international criminal. His name is Gilbert Duncan. He is a terrorist—he placed a bomb on the UN charter aircraft that blew up on Monday over Iraq. He is trying to make his way to Turkey up the Euphrates River valley. On land or water, I don't know yet, but I will. I have some of our old colleagues coming down from Sevastopol to help take care of this problem.

  “Colonel Grankin,” said Komulakov, “there is to be no cable traffic back to Moscow Center on this operation. I shall see to it that the appropriate authorities are made aware. Also, I don't want the ambassador informed. Do you understand?”

  “Of course.” Grankin shifted uneasily in his chair.

  “Now, Colonel, I'd like to borrow Major Radchenko here, and those helicopters, and those PFLP fellows for a few days, if that's all right with you. Please take care that the Syrian Interior Ministry, Border Police, Intelligence Service, and even their provincial authorities urgently distribute copies of this.” He handed Grankin the Interpol notice with Peter Newman's picture on it and the particulars describing the crimes of “Gilbert Duncan.” Then he said, “Come, Radchenko, we have work to do,” and walked out the door.

  By the time Radchenko and Komulakov arrived back at the airport, it was 1900 hours and the field was lit up with mercury vapor lamps. All the way to the field, the general gave the Russian clandestine service officer instructions on details that had to be covered: Dotensk's arrival from Baghdad, the plans for billeting and feeding the PFLP volunteers, and arrangements for meeting the Department V alumni when they arrived from Sevastopol.

  First they stopped at Komulakov's UN aircraft, told Captains Kaartje and Sjogren to go into town and get rooms at the Le Meridien Hotel at City Centre. When the two officers had departed, Radchenko helped Komulakov remove the weapons, ammunition, and explosives from the back of the UN aircraft, load them into the trunk of the Russian embassy Lada, and take the entire load over to a hangar at the far end of the field.

  Radchenko showed his Diplomatic ID disc to the local Syrian guard, went to a side door, and unlocked it. They had only been in the hangar a few minutes, admiring the two MI-8 HIP helicopters with Syrian Air Force markings, when the pilots showed up—both Syrians.

  Komulakov shot Radchenko a look, but he said in Russian, “No worry, General. They are loyal to me, and they will take us wherever you wish to go.”

  At 9:45 P.M., Komulakov and Radchenko were drinking strong Arabic coffee and standing over a large-scale map of Syria in the windowless office of the hangar when they heard a commotion at the door.

  “Get your hands off me, you big Russian lout!” The door flew open and both men reached for their 9mm pistols, as Dotensk came flying into the room, propelled by one of Radchenko's Line F Department V brawny heavyweights.

  Radchenko's man, following instructions rather literally, had met Dotensk's flight, grabbed the Ukrainian arms merchant when he exited the terminal and, without telling him where he was going, had dragged Dotensk, kicking and pleading for his life, to the hangar.

  Komulakov re-established order, and the three men talked until almost 11:00 P.M. when the
twelve-man PFLP squad arrived, escorted by two more of Radchenko's thugs. They were soon bedded down on the opposite side of the terminal with instructions not to go near the helicopters until told to do so.

  Shortly after midnight, just as Komulakov had decided to go get some sleep, an Aeroflot flight arrived from Odessa, carrying the six former Department V officers whom Komulakov had summoned earlier in the day. Following Komulakov's orders, the local SVR man issued each of the Russians weapons and ammunition and then took them into the hangar to introduce them to the PFLP shooters. The six Russians, all in their mid-thirties, were dressed like mountain climbers. In fact, their hastily-issued visas claimed that they were “archaeologists.”

  Each of them was given a Motorola UHF radio, a small backpack for carrying rations, water, ammunition, explosives, extra batteries, a small halogen flashlight, and a set of the latest Russian Army night-vision goggles.

  While the six were getting to know the PFLP terrorists they would be leading, Komulakov's satellite telephone began to chirp.

  “Deputy Secretary General Komulakov.”

  Harrod's excited voice came through the speaker, “Go EncryptionLok-3 secure, same encryption as last time.”

  The Russian reached into his pocket, clipped the little device to his phone handset, and said, “Yes, Simon.”

  “He just did it again.”

  “Who?”

  “Newman—who do you think? He has called someone here in Washington, and right now he's on the phone with someone in Turkey. He used his EncryptionLok-3 on the first call, and he's using it right now. NSA got a GPS fix on his location. Copy down these coordinates. …”

  Komulakov said, “Got it. I'll call you back.” Komulakov wrote down the numbers of Newman's location. The general went to the map and yelled for Radchenko. The younger intelligence officer came running.

  “Get on the phone to Grankin. Tell him to alert the Syrians that the terrorist Duncan is at the following location right now and that the UN has reason to believe he may be planning to blow up the hydroelectric dam at the south end of Lake Assad. Dotensk, use your best Arabic to wake up the pilots and tell our little group to get ready to go hunting.”

  The men hurriedly opened the hangar doors and began pushing the helicopters out onto the tarmac. Komulakov turned to Dotensk and said, “You wait here. Stay by that phone. I'll call you if I need anything.”

  The general hurried outside to join the others, who were already boarding. The helicopters lifted into the night sky. It was just a few minutes after 1:00 A.M.

  Once in the air, Komulakov, stood up and, in rusty Arabic, told the pilot where they were going—almost three hundred miles northeast—to the town of Dablan on the Euphrates River, where Newman had been on the phone using his EncryptionLok-3, just moments earlier. As the two helicopters raced toward the location, Radchenko leaned over and shouted in Komulakov's ear: “If Grankin followed orders, the Syrian Army unit at Dayr Az Zawr will get there well ahead of us. We're going to have to stop and re-fuel at Palmyra, but we should get to Dablan well before dawn.” Komulakov looked at the map. Depending on the state of the road, he estimated that the Syrian Army units should beat them to Dablan by several hours. He only hoped that their quarry wouldn't elude them yet again.

  Shortly before dawn, when the two Russian-built helicopters settled down on the dusty soccer field just outside the riverfront town of Dablan, there was a Syrian Army command vehicle waiting for them. Komulakov and Radchenko got in and went into the little village where they were met by the colonel who commanded the garrison, up the river at Dayr Az Zawr.

  He saluted and said to the two Russians, “I regret that the terrorist Duncan and his accomplice have gotten away.”

  “Accomplice? What accomplice?” asked Komulakov in his heavily-accented Syrian Arabic.

  “He and another man fled as our Interior Ministry Militia approached. All they left behind were these, and this.” The colonel held up the pus-covered bandages that had covered Newman's burns and the semi-melted remnants of some kind of electronic device.

  Komulakov, the only one there who had ever seen one before, recognized it as an EncryptionLok-3. “Thank you, Colonel. Apparently one of them has been hurt,” he said pointing to the bandages. “And this,” the Russian said, picking up the destroyed EncryptionLok-3, “this appears to be one of his bomb devices. I need to take this with me to see if it matches the parts we found in the destroyed MD-80. And, I'll be glad to have some DNA tests performed on those bandages if you'll let me have them.”

  The Syrian Army colonel then said, “The Interior Ministry officers don't even know what direction they went. They were in that hotel,” he said, pointing across the dusty street. “Apparently the officers used their sirens when they approached and alerted them.”

  “Don't worry, Colonel, we know where he's gone. He's headed for Lake Assad, probably to blow up the hydroelectric dam,” said Komulakov.

  The Syrian's eyes widened. “In the name of Allah—how do you know?”

  “Never mind that. But you have a chance to stop him,” added Komulakov. “May I suggest, Colonel, that you take your men to the dam and make certain that it is safe and fully protected from any outside interference or attack? After the sun comes up, I'll take my UN counterterrorist unit aboard the helicopters to patrol the river north of here. I'm absolutely certain that he will stay on this river.”

  “It is a good plan,” the Syrian colonel replied. He was going to order the UN force to stay away from the dam because he wanted to personally insure its ongoing safety, and their presence would be a complicating factor. “My men will guard the dam, and if we find him first, you may not have anything to do,” he told Komulakov.

  Komulakov said, “I know this man. His path has been very predictable. He plans to go to Birecik and try to get to Incirlik from there. This man Duncan is smart. He will likely travel on the river only at night, when it will be hardest for us to locate him. But by this time tomorrow evening, I shall be toasting you over his corpse. He will not outsmart me this time.”

  Euphrates River

  ________________________________________

  12 km SE Dayr Az Zawr, Syria

  Thursday, 9 March 1995

  0545 Hours, Local

  It was still dark but the dawn was overtaking the underpowered outboard. Newman and Samir had escaped capture at the hotel in Dablan, but barely. At about 4:00 A.M., just north of Bushayrah, they had run out of gas, and began to drift silently back down the river. The two men rowed feverishly toward the shore, and Samir went to see what he could scrounge up in the way of some petrol.

  Newman waited with the boat for twenty minutes, until Samir returned with his prize. He had bargained with a fisherman for two plastic milk bottles filled with fuel, and before long, the boat was underway once again.

  They had maneuvered the river, its currents, and shallow sandbars fairly well, despite the darkness. Only once did the boat get stuck in the muddy flats where the river became so shallow that the two men had to get out and pull it through what turned out to be knee-deep water. Finally the river got deeper, but was thick with reeds. The propeller kept getting tangled in them, and they had to stop frequently. Eventually, by towing the boat through the shallower water, and by rowing it in the deeper stretches, they finally got past the reeds.

  All of this ate up precious time, however. Samir had said that there was an Army garrison at Dayr Az Zawr. They didn't want to transit that stretch of water in daylight and they knew that they would soon have to conceal themselves from police and military units using the highway that ran parallel to the river.

  Here the Euphrates became much narrower: a twisted sluggish stripe through the desert, snaking through the geography of the area and, turning back on itself several times each mile. For the two fugitives, this was also the most dangerous place on the river because it was impossible to see much more than a kilometer ahead—everything always seemed hidden behind the next curve.

  Samir sat
by the outboard motor and steered the small boat from one side of the river to the other, trying to enhance their view of what lay ahead. At the same time, he was praying aloud in Arabic. Newman couldn't understand him but figured the man's piety couldn't hurt.

  As the boat rounded a wide curve, the sun burst over the horizon on their right like a searchlight shining across the Euphrates valley. They could now only hope that someone looking for them would be unable to distinguish them from the dozens of other small craft on the water. Newman squinted in the morning light as the sun's rays illuminated a rise about two kilometers ahead. He could make out a town at the west edge of the river, and just south of the town a number of trucks were lined up alongside the riverbank. Newman could also make out the figures of men standing, and walking around, by the trucks.

  When they were less than half a kilometer away, Newman's blood ran cold. The trucks that he had seen were Army trucks, and the men were soldiers. He motioned to Samir to slow the boat so they could assess their next action. Two boats that had been a little way ahead of them going up the river were being hailed over by soldiers who had commandeered four larger boats. It appeared that the Syrian Army was stopping all river traffic going north.

  Samir stopped the boat in the middle of the river as they tried to gauge whether they should go forward or not. Newman shook his head. “These guys know what they're doing. They've got one part of their force on the highway with machine guns facing the river … and some of their men on the river checking the boats to see who's in them. We can't go ahead. We've got to turn around.”

  Samir made a wide turn and headed back downstream, increasing their speed as they went. Someone on the riverbank saw them and fired his rifle at them. Then another did the same. The machine gunner next began firing.

  They got as low in the boat as they could. Samir tried to maintain speed, peeking occasionally over the low gunwale at the riverbank to their right. As the Syrian troops found their range, bullets began striking the water and snapping over their heads.