PointOfHonor

by Susan Glinert Stevens

  The next series of photographs depicted a macabre pantomime. Abruptly, three red blobs from the submarine disappeared into the Gulf. The other red blobs scrambled away towards the conning tower. The black hole in the deck disappeared and the submarine sank beneath the waves. The remaining blobs on deck never reentered the boat. Brian concluded the blobs had to be men. Why were they dressed in yellow and red?

  The final series of photos showed flashes from the boat. Had they abandoned their men to the sea? What kind of captain makes a decision like that? Submarine crews are small families trapped inside a steel tube beneath the waves for months at a time. Leaving men behind to fend for themselves was certainly out of character, regardless of the navy.

  Stillwell stared at the last image. Already, questions were being fired at the briefing officer.

  “Where is the Chinese sub now?”

  “Still in the Gulf.”

  “And the surface vessel?”

  “Unknown—most likely port of origin was Basra.”

  “What happened to the red guys?”

  “Unknown—presumed dead.”

  “Why’d the Chinese leave their own guys?”

  “Unknown—maybe they detected the U-2.”

  “What do you know?”

  “Nothing for sure.”

  “What do you think you know?”

  Stillwell cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Captain.” The idea of civility and politeness from someone as antisocial as Stillwell caused some of the hubbub to subside, and most everyone turned in his direction.

  He sat up. “Does anyone have any idea why the Iraqis shot those Chinese sailors?”

  “What shots?” demanded the Navy Secretary.

  The NSA held up his hand commanding silence and turned back to Stillwell. This was something no one had mentioned up to this point. “Go on, Mister Stillwell.”

  “The last picture after the submarine disappears. There are flashes from the surface vessel.” The photo reappeared on the screen. “Now, something certainly scared the Chinese captain. He dropped back into the Gulf without waiting for his men to get back inside. You know what—the same thing scared the Iraqi sailors. Those flashes look like muzzle blasts from automatic or semiautomatic weapons. My money would be on automatic weapons. The Iraqis are shooting the Chinese guys in the water. So something scared them real bad.”

  He had their attention now. Center stage, all he needed was a white board to draw pictures on. Instead, he asked the briefing officer to back up several photos to the point where the red blobs disappear.

  “Up to this point everything looks fine. We’ve got the Iraqis in DayGlow yellow suits, and the Chinese in DayGlow red suits. Kind of strange don’t you think? Here they are under cover of darkness, in the middle of the Gulf during a US satellite blackout. The sub is obviously black. The surface ship is probably some sort of gray or mottled brownish green thing. So why do we have a bunch of people bouncing around in reflective clothing?” His eyes locked with the Two Star sitting closer to the front of the room. The General knew the answer, but being a General in this administration brought him under suspicion. That’s why Brian had been invited. A civilian expert was needed to tell the political appointees the truth.

  “Those look like biohazard suits.” He changed gears suddenly on them. “Does anyone rememberThe Hunt for Red October ? The Russian captain needs to get his crew off theRed October —so they fake a nuclear accident. They frighten everyone. There is no question but to abandon ship.” He tapped his finger at the photo display. “I’ll bet the Chinese inside the sub panicked, because whatever they were working with must have been the real thing. Something went wrong or maybe it started to leak. Perhaps someone panicked on the surface ship. Everyone wanted to run away. Maybe someone thought this was a double cross or they were just plain scared and the shooting started. The easiest thing for the sub to do was to drop out of sight.”

  The Deputy Secretary of State interrupted, “So what are you saying?”

  Brian switched his focus. “Madam Secretary, I am suggesting that something nasty was transferred between the Chinese and Iraqi boats last night. You don’t need biohazard suits to hand out lollypops. I am further suggesting that something went wrong and there are some dead bodies floating out there. What I don’t know is whether the transfer was from the Chinese to the Iraqis or vice versa. Maybe it’s nuclear, or maybe its chemicals—I really don’t know. I don’t think its something benign like bullets, because there are many ways to procure those items short of using a nuclear submarine as a delivery truck. So something scared them and they started shooting.”

  “You can’t be sure those were NBC suits,” countered the Secretary, referring to what looked like nuclear, biological, and chemical biohazard suits everyone was wearing in the photos.

  “No I can’t. However, I know we paint ours DayGlow orange, and this wasn’t a casual visit. It was clandestine—timed to happen when our satellites were looking elsewhere. If they went to all that trouble, why wear something that would catch our eye as being out of place? Saddam plays the odds. He knows we can’t watch everything all the time. They know our satellite schedules. That’s why we’re still flying U-2 surveillance, and every so often we find something interesting.”

  The blood slowly drained from the Secretary’s face. However the NSA saved her before she could utter some inane challenge to Stillwell. “And, Mister Stillwell, faced with a scenario as you describe, what would you recommend to the President?”

  A smirk emerged. No one really wanted to hear the answer, but Brian had always worked on the principle that no one hired him to be nice. He glanced at the Two Star before replying. Their eyes locked again for the briefest of moments. “I would suggest that we hunt down the404 and sink her if necessary. Whatever went wrong; it is obvious that the transfer was not completed. That means whatever it is could still be on the404 . In addition, I recommend we find the stuff that was on the Iraqi boat.”

  “Two acts of war,” chided Madam Secretary. “Generally, we get the recommendation for only one act of war at a time. May I remind you, the Chinese government is a nuclear power on the Pacific Rim? It is not in our interest to start a shooting war with the Chinese. Furthermore, may I remind you, that no one knows this is an Iraqi boat? Or that anything like the weapons you describe were even present.”

  “With all due respect, Madam Secretary,” replied Brian. He had no respect for the woman. She was an idiot manning an important foreign policy position because her politics aligned properly on abortion. “No one is suggesting we start a shooting war, but if nothing is amiss, then why are we all here? To see a picture of the tooth fairy?” He was warmed up and ready for a fight. “Are we to believe nothing happened last night? You have evidence of a Chinese nuclear submarine penetrating the Persian Gulf to meet with a boat most likely based out of Basra. We are here, Madam Secretary, because someone believes Saddam Hussein just got his hands on something nasty enough to make good all the threats he’s been issuing since the Gulf War.”

  “Your suggestions will certainly be considered, Mister Stillwell.” With that, the NSA dismissed Brian from the discussion. There were other ideas—ideas less plausible and more palatable to the current administration. Brian did not pay much attention to the discussion. His gut told him he was right. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he prayed he was wrong.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Roselle, Illinois

  Saturday, November 15, 1997

  10:00 A.M. CST

  Jim Harper turned right into the strip mall at Plum Grove and Nerge. It had a Walgreen’s on one end of the mall and a video rental store on the other. It was like a hundred other strip malls popping up in the cornfields of the northern and western Chicago suburbs. In the few years he had lived here, the sprawling growth of Dupage and Kane counties continued outwards. What had once been small farming communities now hosted over 250,000 people in a five-mile radius from where he was standing.

  It was starting to get cold. W
inter’s icy fingers were beginning to gather their grip. Already the sky had changed to battleship gray and a cold breeze rode over the prairie. The occasional snowflake flitted through the air. He could feel the hardness of the coming winter. The places on his body pockmarked with scars, the joints once twisted out of shape, and the broken bones, long since healed, reminded him of his mortality.

  Only today, as most Saturdays, was not a day for combat, remembrance, or duty. The roar and smoke of battle were from days gone by. The blood and sweat endured during peace and war dim memories. Saturdays were those moments when Harper reaped a small reward. A time away from hisday job when he could pass on a sense of honor to those who would listen. Saturdays were spent teaching kids and adults Tae Kwon Do.

  On Saturdays, James Harper instructed lower belts in sparring, kicking, and punching basics. A fourth degree black belt, he was considered a master instructor. After so many years, he still felt the magic of training someone in the martial arts—to take an average person and transform them into a trained fighter. Training someone to fight was only half of the journey. The other half involved developing a sense of duty and honor. Honor not based on eastern mysticism, rather, he sought to instill a sense of personal integrity. His honor was rooted in the belief that life is precious and God-given. Life is not a trivial commodity to be traded lightly. He certainly knew the cost of life. Warriors generally crave peace and shun war.

  As far as anyone knew, Jim Harper was a successful businessman. A man happily married with two children, a nice house, and a big dog. Harper had achieved the American dream. Granted, he could obliterate the ten-ring on any target from fifty yards. Yes, he knew how to make a bomb out of household items. Indeed, he could teach the Marine close quarter combat instructors a couple of things. However, those were secrets from a past Harper rarely thought of. He had been a warrior; now he was content to be husband and father, and a karate instructor on Saturdays.

  Old habits born out of survival never die. He did notice the pickup truck pulling into the parking lot five slots down from his parking spot. The same truck had picked him up as he left his house—two Caucasian males in a late model Ford F-150. They simply parked and sat in their truck. After so many years, who would be interested in him again?

  He opened the rear hatch of his Nissan Pathfinder and grabbed the gym bag containing his uniform, belt, and pads. Leaning into the rear of his truck, he pulled the cased Glock 19 from its compartment. Pretending to examine something in the gym bag, he loaded a fifteen round magazine into the Glock, racked the slide, and slipped the pistol into his coat pocket.

  A Glock 19 is certainly close to the perfect weapon for a defensive pistol. Unlike other weapons, a Glock can digest just about any bullet configuration it is fed. Glocks rarely jam. They work in sand, water, heat, and cold. Jim carried 115 grain Gold Dot Hollow Points. A 9mm may not produce a one shot stop, but it does deliver a punch accompanied by an ear-ringing bang.

  Harper dropped the gym bag on the ground behind his truck, closed the hatch, and turned towards the two in the pickup. He did not like people following him. He liked people even less who lurked outside of his home. So, with a wave and a smile, he walked over to the pickup.

  The goons inside the pickup were caught off guard. Harper closed the distance before the two had a chance to react. He grabbed the driver’s side door and opened it, bringing the Glock into view for the first time. Still smiling he said, “You boys have been following me.” Stepping in, he jammed the muzzle into the ribs of the driver and pulled a Sig 229 from the driver’s shoulder holster. “I don’t like being followed.” He continued flipping the safety off the Sig while pointing it at the passenger. “So if I see you around my house, or outside this school or anywhere else—someone could get hurt.” He chuckled nodding to the passenger. “I presume you have something similar to your friend here. I’ll give you three seconds to drop it in his lap.” The Sig turned towards the passenger’s kneecap.

  The willingness to use necessary force is a barrier everyone must face. These two had read Harper’s dossier. The passenger knew that if Harper got to four seconds without results, his knee would be shattered. Harper was hardly a normal suburban businessman. Besides, they were simply here to observe and not to take a tour of the local trauma wards.

  A Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum dropped neatly between the driver’s legs. “That was right neighborly of you.” He frowned at the passenger. “I’m sure you have a good reason to be carrying a fine cannon like that.” He dropped the Sig into his other pocket and scooped up the .44. “So let me make sure we understand each other. If I see you again, you’ll be spending months in the hospital.” The frown vanished and twinkling eyes turned colder than the sky above. “You do somethingreally stupid, they’ll be hauling you away in pieces.”

  The Glock and the Smith vanished into his coat. A smile returned and Harper said gleefully, “Have a nice day.” He stepped back and kicked the door shut. To emphasize his point, he thrust-kicked the driver’s door, leaving the heal print of his cowboy boot. The engine turned over and the pickup backed out of the slot. His shadows drove away without looking back. Harper should have been happy with his success, instead, a grim foreboding settled in a cold spot between his shoulder blades. It had been a long time since he had to chase off shadows such as these. Now they were back. Someone was testing the waters again.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Washington, D.C.

  Saturday, November 15, 1997

  10:45 A.M. EST

  They had been briefed. Obviously, Iraq and Red China were up to mischief. Certainly, those two players were replacing the Soviet Union as the world’s chief troublemakers. The briefing was breaking up. A small, select group would meet to make some decision—probably the wrong one—and check in with CNN to see if anything else were amiss. Brian Stillwell had little time for such antics.

  He was surprised when the National Security Advisor told him to stay. The meeting after the briefing came down to the two star general, a CIA spook, someone from the White House, and Lisa Borden, the Deputy Secretary of State.

  “Why have you included Mister Stillwell?” asked Lisa.

  “Because, we need someone who will tell us the politically incorrect things we need to hear.” The NSA smiled. “He has no love for our president. He thinks you folks at State have made disastrous decisions in the Middle East and China. He’s against the bailout of Russia, and he supports greater defense spending—kind of anuke ’em ’til they glow attitude. He doesn’t really like me. Right now, all we have in this room are people you and I can intimidate. Stillwell doesn’t care.” He paused.

  “In addition to all those flaws, Mister Stillwell is one of the top experts on unconventional weapons systems in the country. We know that something was passed from China to Iraq, or perhaps vice versa,” he teased with a knowing look in Brian’s direction. “We think it might be a weapon of mass destruction. Something went wrong during the transfer and a Chinese submarine might be experiencing some sort of poisoning. We saw what appeared to be casualties, and we have a big problem if that madman really does get his hands on weapons of mass destruction.”

  Stillwell coughed and said sarcastically, “In case you folks haven’t been following the news,that madman already has weapons of mass destruction.”

  Lisa glared at the NSA, but kept her own council for the moment.

  The spook broke his silence for the first time. “I’ve got the briefing books you requested for this meeting. Louis Edwards is on his way to meet the team leader we discussed this morning.”

  “Excuse me, but I take it you saw these photos a long time before the rest of us,” interrupted Brian.

  “Who’s Louis Edwards?” demanded Lisa.

  The spook looked across the table to the NSA. There was a brief nod before the spook replied, “Louis Edwards is a member of the intelligence community. He has worked on black ops for the past twenty years. These include operations against friendly and hostile governments. From
time to time, Mister Edwards has had an opportunity to work with members of the elite services.”

  “He means Army Rangers, DELTA Force, and that sort of thing,” injected Brian.

  “Yes, well, the man the computers came up with for Team Leader is no longer employed by the United States Government; however, Mister Edwards has worked with him on several occasions, and it was felt that he should be positioned to talk with our candidate pending the approval of this committee and the strictures of time.”

  “He means we’re really scared this time, and we don’t have much time to create the usual bureaucratic disaster you folks at State are so capable of creating,” continued Brian. His eyes never left Lisa Borden’s perplexed features. He shifted his gaze back to the spook. Suffering fools was not something at which Brian excelled. “Now that we’ve explained absolutely nothing about Louis Edwards beyond the obvious, could you answer my question? I take it you saw these photos a long time before the rest of us.”

  “Yes, sir,” explained the spook. He wore no nametag. He had no visible security badge like the rest of them. His posture was something other than the usual bureaucrat encountered at Langley. Perhaps this was something other than an ordinary spook. “We saw these photos nearly seven hours ago. I came to the same conclusions as you did, Mister Stillwell. I think we have a very bad situation on our hands.”

  “That’s why you’re still here,” explained the NSA. “You passed my test, as much as I don’t like you. You made sense this morning. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not about to authorize military action against a Chinese submarine. I do think, however, that covert action against Iraq is in order. At this moment, a Presidential Finding is being signed to that effect.” He turned to Lisa. ”Your role here is a courtesy. The President made it quite clear that State be kept in the loop. I think that also means CNN stays out of the loop for the moment. All media control will be run from the White House.” He smiled one more time. “Any questions anyone has will be routed through Arthur.” The smile faded slightly. “He’s our Ollie North. If something goes wrong, or someone needs a Judas goat, Arthur has volunteered to fill the role.”