Black Ops

by W. E. B Griffin

  He ran his eyes around the room, looking intently for a moment at everybody. No one said a word.

  “Okay. That’s it. It is now established that there is a chemical laboratory slash factory in the Congo established by the Iranians, the Russians, or both, with the intent of waging chemical slash biological warfare against the United States, despite the fish farm opinion of the intelligence community, specifically the CIA, and that we see it as our duty to take it out before they can bring the aforementioned chemical slash biological weapon into play.”

  He looked around the room again.

  “Hearing no objections, the motion carries.

  “Facts bearing on the problem: Colonel Castillo has concluded that the way to deal with the problem is to go to the President, lay what he believes—and I believe—are the facts before him, whereupon the President will take the necessary action.

  “Colonel Castillo is wrong. The President would not take—with an exception I will get into in a minute—the necessary action without running it past the secretary of State, the secretary of Defense, and the DCI. They would all object. The DCI would insist all it is is a fish farm and the whole idea is nothing more than from the fevered imagination of a loose cannon who has, among other outrages, snatched two high-level defectors from the CIA and now refuses to turn them over for interrogation by those who know how to do that sort of thing.

  “The DCI, if I have to say this, would be wrong. The secretary of State and the secretary of Defense, when the President asked them for their opinion of his intended dispatch of the military might of the United States into a poor African country, would both say, ‘Mr. President, there simply is no proof.’

  “And they would be right. All we have is the word of these two, plus some circumstantial stuff, and nobody believes circumstantial.

  “And then there is the problem of the Russians making fools of us with Colonel Sunev, which no one wants to see happen again.”

  “General—” Berezovsky began.

  “Let me guess, Colonel. You’re here because you are willing to go to the CIA and let them interrogate you using any means they think will work, including chemical. I admire that. I truly do. But it wouldn’t work. You want to know why? Because as people believe what they want to believe, they disbelieve what they don’t want to believe. If the agency had you in one of their Maryland rest homes and they couldn’t prove you were lying, they would blame the sodium pentothal, or whatever else they had been sticking in your veins, and keep trying something else until you were dead, dead, dead. Getting the picture, Colonel?”

  “What you’re leading up to,” Svetlana said, “is that Carlos has to lay proof—not just what we offer as ‘facts’—on the President’s desk. Am I correct?”

  “Precisely,” McNab said. “Without proof, we’re pis . . .”

  “Pissing in the wind?” Svetlana asked innocently.

  McNab couldn’t repress a smile. “If you’re so smart, why is it you keep looking at Charley like he’s the man of your dreams?”

  “I suppose that’s because he is. Now, how do we get the proof?”

  “First, we have to define proof,” McNab said.

  “How do we do that?” Svetlana asked.

  “We get us an expert,” McNab said.

  “Fort Dietrich,” Delchamps said.

  “Fort Dietrich,” McNab confirmed. “Corporal Bradley, I presume you have the AFC up and running?”

  “Yes, sir,” Bradley said. He walked to General McNab and gave him the handset.

  “Pay attention, please,” McNab said. “We are about to take the irreversible step. Cross the Rubicon, so to speak. This is everybody’s absolutely final last chance to bail out. And I have to say that I really wish I wasn’t running this circus, because I would be the first one out the door.”

  He looked around the room one final time, then picked up the handset.

  “Bruce J. McNab. Encryption Level One. Get me the White House switchboard.”

  “White House. Good evening, General McNab. How can we help you?”

  “Get me the commanding general of the U.S. Army Medical Research Institute at Fort Dietrich, Maryland, on a secure line, please.”

  “The what?” Berezovsky asked, confused.

  McNab put his hand over the mouthpiece. “They used to call it the Chemical Warfare Lab. That was before political correctness took over.”

  XV

  [ONE]

  The Malaga Suite

  Portofino Island Resort & Spa

  Pensacola Beach, Florida

  2359:30 6 January 2006

  One of the many things then—Second Lieutenant Castillo had learned during his tenure as aide-de-camp to then-Brigadier General McNab was that McNab believed that no matter how noble one’s intentions, working when fatigued usually produced little that was useful and too often what was produced was sloppy or in error—or both.

  He began a meeting like this one by judging the participants and himself and deciding how long it could profitably last.

  Castillo, therefore, was not surprised when Lieutenant Colonel Peter Woods interrupted McNab in the middle of a sentence to announce, “Midnight in thirty seconds, General.”

  When they had walked into the suite after their dinner at McGuire’s, McNab had caught Woods’s eye and said, “Midnight.” Colonel Woods had nodded his understanding.

  One thing all the participants had learned tonight was that General McNab did not like to be interrupted. Everybody but Woods and Castillo therefore waited for the explosion when Woods announced the time.

  Instead, McNab turned to Svetlana and smiled. “As your boyfriend—I would say ‘gentleman friend,’ Susan, but that would not be accurate—may have told you, at the stroke of midnight I change from being a kindly friend of man and mentor to the world into an ogre.”

  “Oh, I can’t believe that,” Svetlana said.

  This earned her another smile.

  She had become one of the four people in the room who could talk back to McNab—even interrupt him—without triggering a scathing response, the others being her brother and Phineas DeWitt.

  “We’ll resume at oh-nine-hundred,” McNab then announced. “Brief recapitulation: As is often the case, our major problem is ignorance. We don’t know exactly what the evil Iranians and their Russian mentors are cooking up for us in the Congo—only that they’re doing it.

  “We won’t even know precisely what to look for until Colonel . . .” He stopped and looked at Woods.

  “Hamilton, sir. Colonel J. Porter Hamilton,” Woods furnished.

  “. . . J. Porter Hamilton of the U.S. Army Medical Research Institute at Fort Dietrich arrives . . .” He looked at Woods again.

  “At oh-eight-fifteen. Delta flight 616 from Atlanta,” Woods furnished.

  “. . . and having been met by . . .”

  “Colonel Richardson, sir.”

  “. . . comes here to share with us what the CG of Fort Dietrich says is Colonel Hamilton’s encyclopedic knowledge of the subject.

  “Meanwhile, rushing ahead blindly in our overwhelming ignorance, it is tentatively planned for our people to enter the Democratic Republic of the Congo on the ground via Rwanda, as Phineas tells us that’s our only option except by HALO insertion, and that’s not much of an option, because we wouldn’t know where to drop them, which would leave us with between twelve and twenty-four of our people in the middle of we-know-not-where and without wheels.

  “Our people being defined as ‘as black as possible’ Delta Force operators to be selected by Mr. Leverette, who will go to Bragg as quickly and as quietly as possible to do so.

  “And, speaking of black people, inasmuch as Brother Britton feels that (a) those he insists on calling the Afro-American Lunatics may be in possession of useful information and (b) that he may able to obtain it from them, we have to get him—”

  “And his lovely wife,” Sandra interjected.

  McNab looked irritated at the interruption but did not flare up.
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br />   “—and his lovely wife to Philadelphia as soon as possible, and quietly, which may be difficult, as he is what is known as a ‘person of interest’ to the Secret Service.

  “Presuming all this can somehow be accomplished, our people will be transported to . . .” He looked to Castillo.

  “Gregoire Kayibanda International in Rwanda, or Bujumbura International in Burundi,” Castillo furnished.

  “Depending on which looks like the better place to Phineas, who will reconnoiter both on the ground, having entered both countries surreptitiously from Uganda, presuming he can persuade the Ugandan embassy in Washington to give him a visa. A little cash may help in this regard.

  “Phineas, equipped with large amounts of currency, will also purchase a fleet of vehicles that will be waiting for our people at either . . .”

  “Bujumbura International or Gregoire Kayibanda,” Castillo furnished again.

  “. . . when they arrive aboard our 727 . . .”

  “Or are HALO’d in,” Leverette said.

  “Thank you, Uncle Remus. May I continue?”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “The vehicles will be waiting for our people when we somehow get them in, either in our 727—dressed in the color scheme of some ragtag African freight hauler, to be determined by Colonel Jake Torine—or, as Uncle Remus was so kind to point out, are HALO’d in.

  “Once they have the vehicles, Phineas will bribe their way across the bridge at the southern end of Lake Kivu, from which they will proceed up Congo National Route Three.

  “How far they proceed up Route Three depends on our finding out just where the laboratory is. It is to be hoped that Brother Britton, after eluding his former associates in the Secret Service, will be able to get from the AALs at least a hint about the location of the lab.

  “Once that little detail is out of the way and we can tell them where to go, they will infiltrate the plant area in search of whatever . . .” He looked at Colonel Woods.

  “Colonel J. Porter Hamilton.”

  “. . . Colonel J. Porter Hamilton—why does someone ashamed of his first name worry me?—tells them to look for. Once they have done that, they will bring whatever it is they have found—and themselves—out of the Congo to a yet-to-be-determined location by means yet to be determined.

  “Once the matériel and our people are safely aboard our Tanzanian Air Freight and Gorilla Transport 727 and en route to the U.S. of A., Colonel Castillo will have to abandon his search for interesting seashells on the sandy beaches of Cozumel, Mexico, or whatever else he’s doing with Tom and Susan down there, and return to the United States to lay evidence before the President of what the evil Iranians and the Russians are really doing on what CIA intel heretofore labeled a fish farm.”

  “Sir,” Castillo said, “there is really no reason I couldn’t go as far as Uganda with DeWitt, and run the op from there.”

  “I don’t recall asking for your opinion, Colonel, but since you insist on muddying the waters: Yes, there is. The primary reason, of course, is that I say you can’t.”

  “Ex cathedra?” Svetlana said.

  “I’ll just bet among the many other secrets our Carlos has shared with you, my dear young woman, is that I don’t like to be interrupted.”

  “No, he never said a word.”

  McNab looked at Delchamps. “Tell me, Edgar, why do I think those two deserve each other?”

  “Because at the stroke of midnight, you change from being a kindly friend of man and mentor of the world into an ogre, and it’s already five past the witching hour?”

  “True,” McNab said. “Charley, if that ‘locate but do not detain’ that the FBI has out on you changes, as I suspect it might, to ‘put him in the bag,’ this whole op goes out the window. I’m surprised you can’t figure that out all by yourself.

  “Second, or thirdly, or whatever, you are going to have to keep in touch with Edgar and Darby so that the guy who runs your newspapers and that Hungarian character really give them—us—everything they’ve got on the Germans sending matériel down there. The more of that you can lay before the President, the better.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The more astute of you may have noticed we have a few little problems as yet to be resolved. One of these is how do we get Charley and Susan—and, of course, her brother as chaperone—down to sunny Cozumel, since I am offering ten-to-one that some FBI agent is at this minute at the Pensacola airport watching the Gulfstream to see if he shows up. And I don’t think we can count on them not knowing who Karl Gossinger is, either.”

  He exhaled audibly.

  “But . . . this is enough for tonight. Try to have some useful suggestions in the morning.”

  He banged his fist on the table.

  “Meeting adjourned. Go in peace.”

  [TWO]

  The Malaga Suite

  Portofino Island Resort & Spa

  Pensacola Beach, Florida

  0620 7 January 2006

  Castillo, carrying fresh linen and his toilet kit, quietly closed the door of the second, unused bedroom of the suite, then turned to head for its bathroom. He immediately saw that the bedroom in fact was in use.

  Max was stretched out—not curled up—on the bed.

  “Don’t let me disturb you, buddy. I am in my kindly don’t-wake-the-weary-sleepers mood.”

  Charley had not disturbed Svetlana, who was soundly asleep in the master bedroom. He had thought—but of course did not tell her—that the way she slept was like Max slept: completely limp, sort of melting into the sheets and mattress.

  Max took him at his word, closed his eyes—the only part of him that had moved when Castillo came into the room—and went back to sleep.

  Castillo moved to the bathroom, where on the sink he found a coffeemaker beside a hair dryer. He got the coffeemaker going, then performed his morning ablutions, which included shaving under the running water of the shower.

  The coffee was ready when he was finished, and tasted as bad as he had been afraid it would.

  The options were calling room service, or drinking it. Calling room service would mean a waiter would eventually appear and make enough noise to wake Svet. Perhaps worse, there was no guarantee the room-service coffee would taste any better than what he had.

  He left the bathroom, carrying both the coffeepot and a plastic mug, and headed for the balcony that overlooked the beach.

  Max followed.

  It was a beautiful day. A little chilly, but going back in their bedroom for one of the terry-cloth robes probably would wake Svet. And there were no robes in the second bathroom; he had looked.

  He took another sip of the coffee, grimaced as he swallowed, set down the cup, and then, resting his hands on the balcony railing, looked down at the beach.

  A group of sturdy souls in T-shirts and shorts were double-timing down the beach, headed by Lieutenant General Bruce J. McNab.

  Immediately, memories came to him of Second Lieutenant Castillo jogging after Brigadier General McNab all over picturesque Fort Bragg. General McNab was a devotee of physical conditioning in general and early-morning jogging in particular.

  “I wonder how I got excused from this morning’s jaunt?” he asked Max, who didn’t reply.

  He had just acquired the answer—If the general thinks the FBI is watching the airplane, to locate if not detain me, the general thinks there is a strong possibility they might be watching the Portofino Island Resort & Spa for the same purpose— when a bonging announced that someone was at the door.

  “That, Max, is either the FBI or, more than likely, someone McNab sent to summon me for the morning run.”

  Castillo worried more than a little about the former possibility—particularly as it might apply to Svetlana—while he rushed to open the door before the chimes bonged again and awoke her.

  He pulled it open.

  “Good morning, sir,” a trim, dark-haired young man of fourteen said. He wore khaki pants and an obviously brand-new T-shirt bearing Naval A
viator wings and the legend U.S. NAVAL AVIATION MUSEUM.

  “Did I wake you, sir?” Randolph J. Richardson IV said politely.

  “No, Randy. I had to get up to answer the doorbell. Come on in.”

  They somewhat formally shook hands.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Max put his front paws on Randy’s shoulders and enthusiastically lapped his face.

  “You’re with your dad?” Castillo asked.

  “He had to come here to get wheels to meet some guy at the airport.”

  “Yes, that’s right. I’d forgotten.”

  Colonel J. Porter Hamilton of the U.S. Army Medical Research Institute is due in at 0815.

  McNab sent Righteous Randolph to meet him.

  “I told him that you had called and said you wanted to introduce me to General McNab.”

  What the hell?

  “Why did you do that, Randy?”

  “Otherwise, he wouldn’t have brought me over here.”

  “Why did you want to come over here?”

  “I have a couple of questions, sir.”

  Castillo waved the boy onto a couch.

  “Have you had your breakfast?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Neither have I. There’s a room-service menu on the table there.” Castillo gestured to it. “Order up.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He took the menu from the coffee table and began to study its possibilities.

  “See anything you like?” Castillo asked after a moment.

  “Yes, sir. They have buckwheat pancakes with genuine Vermont maple syrup, not that usual molasses crap they call pancake syrup.”

  “Well, that sounds good. Then that’s what we’ll have.” He paused. “What kind of questions, Randy?”