Black Ops #1

by William W. Johnstone

  “It is, Senator.”

  “And how much is that contract?”

  “It depends upon how much work is done,” Mossenberg replied.

  “But it does have a rather generous cap, does it not?”

  “I am satisfied with the cap,” Mossenberg said.

  “In fact, Mr. Mossenberg, isn’t the cap for two billion dollars ?”

  “We have not billed that much,” Mossenberg said.

  “But you have been paid a great deal of money, have you not, Mr. Mossenberg? A great deal of American taxpayers’ money?”

  “We have been paid more by the Iraqi oil industry than we have received from the U.S. government,” Mossenberg said.

  “Still, your compensation is very high.”

  “Our risks are high,” Mossenberg said. “I would remind you that Bernie Gelb worked for us. We have also had six other employees killed.”

  “The other six were not Americans, were they?”

  “One of them was an American, one was German, and four were Iraqi. But they were all employees of Transworld Oil, and we felt their loss keenly.”

  “And you would like revenge for their deaths, would you not?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean, Senator. If you are asking if I would like to see their killers brought to justice, the answer is yes.”

  “Have you done anything to bring them to justice?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m sure you are aware, Mr. Mossenberg, that three citizens of Qambari, who were in the United States, were found murdered.”

  “I’ve read about it.”

  “I am told that we have very strong reason to believe that these Qambaris were guilty of murder of American citizens. One, a Mr. Shamat, is suspected of being the killer of your employee, Bernie Gelb.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of that.”

  “Did you have anything to do with the death of these three men?” Harriet asked.

  “I did not.”

  “Are you aware of, and do you have any knowledge of, a secret organization of the U.S. government that might have something to do with the killings?”

  “I have no such knowledge, Senator.”

  “Thank you, no further questions.”

  Harriet smiled. She had gotten the question of a government star-chamber before the Senate. That was exactly what she set out to do.

  WCN Studios, Atlanta, Georgia

  Bill Jacoby, host of World Cable News Sunday, stared into the monitor, using it as a mirror while he combed his hair.

  “Coming up in five, Bill,” a voice in his earpiece said.

  Jacoby looked into the monitor, checked his image, then changed the expression to one he considered to be more appropriate. The red light came on.

  “Is there a sanctioned star-chamber at work in the halls of our own government?” he asked, beginning this segment. “Is our State Department, or perhaps our Department of Defense, killing suspected terrorists, without so much as a trial? Our next guest, Senator Harriet Clayton, is looking into just such a charge.”

  The screen split, with Bill Jacoby on the left, and Senator Harriet Clayton on the right.

  “Senator Clayton, thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to visit with us tonight.”

  “Thank you for the opportunity,” Harriet replied.

  “I should tell our viewers that you are in Washington now, and you have been looking into this charge of government involvement in a string of bizarre killings, have you not?”

  “I have, Bill, and in fact, I put the question in the record while I was questioning Bert Mossenberg.”

  “Do you really believe that Mossenberg may have something to do with it?”

  “It is not beyond the realm of possibility,” Harriet replied. “And I must say that some of the preliminary results of my investigation have been quite disturbing.”

  “Disturbing in what way, Senator?”

  “Disturbing in the way the murders have been planned, coordinated, and executed. Although a playing card, the ace of spades, has been left at the scene of each crime, I believe that is a ruse.”

  “A ruse in what way?”

  “Well, consider this,” Harriet said. “Suppose there are several ‘hit teams’ carrying out these atrocious events, but they wanted to make it appear as if only one person is doing it. What better way than to find some ‘signature’ that all could leave behind at the scene of the crime?”

  “Yes,” Jacoby said. “Yes, I can see your point. But wouldn’t such an activity be a violation of the law?”

  “Oh, indeed it would be,” Harriet replied. “Not only U.S. law but international law as well.”

  “What is your purpose for investigating it?” Jacoby asked.

  “Look, we have had enough difficulty maintaining our image in light of the . . . what some are calling an unnecessary war in which we are engaged. We have also had to deal with the atrocities against the Muslim prisoners, carried on in our prisons. Someone has got to put a check on this administration.”

  “And so you have taken on that responsibility?”

  “Indeed I have, Bill. And I am always reminded by the mantra of the conscientious when called upon to perform an unpleasant and often difficult task. If not now, when? And if not my committee, which has watchdog responsibility over such things, then by who?”

  “You raise a good point, Senator. An excellent point,” Jacoby said.

  Secretary of the Army Jordon Giles’s home,

  Washington, D.C.

  At the end of the show, Giles turned off the TV and glanced over at Colonel Nighthorse. When, earlier today, the two men had learned that Harriet Clayton was to be a guest on World Cable News Sunday, they agreed to meet at the secretary’s house in order to watch it together, and to discuss any specific ramifications.

  “What do you think,” Giles asked, “did she hurt us?”

  “No,” Nighthorse said. “She didn’t say one thing that would make me believe she was anywhere close.”

  “Yes, I think you are right. Still, all the digging around does make me nervous. How strong is our disconnect?”

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. Secretary?”

  “I mean how hard is it going to be to keep the government clear of any responsibility for what is going on?”

  “I think General Jensen has already helped us there,” Nighthorse said. “It was his idea to leave an ace of spades behind each event. That tends to point to a private individual . . . a crazed vigilante.”

  “Good for Jensen,” Giles said.

  “Mr. Secretary, I do hope you aren’t suggesting that we would ever abandon General Jensen,” Nighthorse said.

  “No, no, I have no intention of throwing General Jensen to the wolves. I told you before, and I tell you again. I will not abandon General Jensen. You can rest easy on that score,” Giles said.

  “We all knew this would be a difficult and trying operation when we went into it,” Nighthorse said. “My recommendation is that we stay the course until everything is taken care of.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then we promote General Jensen to Major General, let him move back into the public, and give him a command somewhere that would be befitting his rank and ability.”

  Giles shook his head. “We don’t have a command commensurate with his ability. He is practically a regiment, all by himself.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Nashville International Airport, Nashville, Tennessee

  Bert Mossenberg was riding in the back of his limo, heading for the executive aviation terminal. He had just returned from the Senate Committee Hearings two days earlier, had a brief visit with his family, and was now heading for Los Angeles to meet with some people from Pacific Coast Recording. In the strange world of diversified businesses, Transworld Oil owned Pacific Coast Recording.

  Billy Jay Packer was with him. Billy Jay, who was Pacific Coast Recording’s number-one star, was one of the hottest singers in country music, with his latest s
ong, “Lovin’You Has Made Me a Better Man,” currently sitting at number two on the charts.

  “I watched some of the Senate Hearings on TV,” Billy Jay said. “And I’ll tell you the truth, Mr. Mossenberg, I don’t know why you didn’t just crawl over that table and kick Harriet Clayton in her skanky ass.”

  Mossenberg laughed. “I did think about it,” he said.

  The car drove through the gate, and right out to the executive tarmac. The airplane, a Gulfstream IV, sat waiting for them. The plane was white, but with an anodized gold band framing the windows, and running the length of the plane. The gold swept up to the tail, rising high above the cluster of four engines. The name TRANSWORLD OIL was in green script, just above the windows, and the logo of an oil derrick, in green, was displayed on the high-sweeping, gold tail.

  The crew of the Gulfstream, pilot, copilot, and flight attendant, were standing just at the foot of the air-stair as the limo arrived. They waited as the driver got out, came around, and opened the door.

  “Mr. Packer,” the flight attendant said, holding forth a CD album. “My name’s Heather Thorndike. Would you autograph this for me?”

  “Why, yes, ma’am, I’d be glad to,” Billy Jay said, smiling broadly and taking the album.

  Mossenberg was on his cell phone as he slid out of the backseat.

  “No, no, no,” he said, speaking animatedly into the telephone. “We need those drill bits yesterday. Do you understand that? Yesterday! Look, getting those drill bits is the difference between having the Iraq fields at sixty percent and ninety percent. You have all the money you need to get them there, and all the authority that is necessary to get the job done. I want results, not excuses.”

  Mossenberg closed his phone, then smiled at the flight crew. “I’m sorry about that, folks, just a little disagreement with someone who seems bound and determined to make my life a bit more complicated than it needs to be. How about getting me up there where there is some peace and quiet? Tell me, Karl, what’s the weather look like?” he asked the pilot.

  “Weather looks good, Mr. Mossenberg. We should have a very smooth flight to Los Angeles, Mr. Mossenberg,” Karl answered.

  “Good, good,” Mossenberg said.

  “Heather?” Karl said, looking around. “Did you put my brain bucket on board?”

  “Brain bucket?” Billy Jay asked as he handed the CD album back to the flight attendant.

  “No, Karl, I didn’t,” Heather replied. Then to Billy Jay, she explained, “Brain bucket is what the pilots call their briefcases, because they have all the files, manuals, and directives they need.”

  “Are you sure? I know I left it right here,” Karl said, as he continued to look around.

  “I haven’t seen it,” Heather insisted.

  “Damn,” Karl replied. “That’s got my approach plates and—”

  “Wait a minute, is that it?” Heather asked, smiling as she pointed to a briefcase sitting about ten yards away from the aircraft.

  “Yeah,” Karl said. “Yeah, it is. How did it get over there?”

  “The caterers probably moved it when they were putting the meal aboard,” Heather said. “They do things like that all the time. I’ll get it for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Inside the airplane, Mossenberg and Billy Jay settled down for the three-hour flight to LAX. The inside of the plane was paneled in gleaming oak, while the sofa and chairs were in white and gold leather, embossed with the same logo that appeared on the tail.

  “Heather, do we have anything to drink?” Mossenberg asked.

  “We’re fully stocked, sir,” the beautiful young attendant said. “What would you like?”

  “How about a root beer with a scoop of vanilla ice cream?” he asked.

  Heather smiled broadly. “I figured you would want that,” she said. “Coming right up.”

  “Uh, darlin’, you wouldn’t have a beer, would you?” Billy Jay asked.

  “I do indeed.”

  “Oh, that would be wonderful,” Billy Jay said as he settled into an overstuffed leather chair.

  In the front of the airplane the copilot made an adjustment to the radio.

  “Karl, we’re on Nashville ground, 121.9,” he said.

  “Thanks, Al,” Karl replied. “Nashville ground, GS Four, Transworld, request permission for taxi and takeoff,” he said into the microphone.

  “GS Four, clear to taxi to runway two-zero right, cross three-one at pilot’s discretion. Altimeter two-niner-niner-seven. Winds two-one degrees at ten knots. Change to tower frequency, 118.6.”

  “Roger, 118.6,” Karl replied, then nodded to Al to make the frequency change.

  Karl picked up the phone and pressed a button. Back in the cabin the phone next to Mossenberg’s seat buzzed, and he picked it up.

  “Yes, Karl,” Mossenberg said.

  “We have clearance for immediate taxi and takeoff, Mr. Mossenberg, if you are ready.”

  “Ready back here,” he said.

  The four engines spooled up, and the airplane moved away from its parking place. Mossenberg picked up the evening newspaper and began to look through it. As was so often the case since his company took on the contract of refurbishing Iraqi oil fields, he found his name with very little difficulty.

  MORE TROUBLES FOR TRANSWORLD OIL

  In a recent appearance before the Senate Subcommittee on Contract Services, Senator Harriet Clayton questioned Bert Mossenberg about any possible involvement he, or his company, might have with the recent deaths of two Qambaris, living in the United States. Senator Paul Harris, chairman of the committee, accused Senator Clayton of engaging in a witch-hunt, stating that she had absolutely no justification for accusing Mossenberg.

  However, regardless of the outcome of Senator Clayton’s investigation, the troubles for Mossenberg, and Transworld Oil, continue to mount.

  The group calling itself Americans for Sane Policy has now asked the ACLU to look into the possibility that Transworld Oil is stealing from the people of Iraq.

  Dean Kerry, a spokesperson for ASP, said, “We believe that, under the guise of returning Iraq’s oil production to its prewar levels, Bert Mossenberg of Transworld Oil is siphoning millions of barrels of oil for the private coffers of Transworld. We have asked the United Nations to look into this scandal, which reaches into the innermost circles of the current administration.”

  Kerry went on to point out that the war in Iraq is unjustified and that it is now becoming increasingly more obvious that it is a “payoff” to the oil cronies who helped the president get elected.

  When the Gulfstream reached the end of runway 2-0 right, Karl called the tower.

  “Nashville Tower, GS Four ready for takeoff.”

  “GS Four, cleared for immediate takeoff,” the Nashville tower told Mossenberg’s pilot. “Change to departure frequency 119.35, and report fifteen thousand.”

  “Roger, 119.35, report fifteen thousand,” Karl repeated.

  Karl then activated the cabin intercom.

  “Uh, we’re at the end of the active with immediate clearance. Heather, please be sure you are seated. We’re rolling,” he added as he moved the thrust levers forward to full takeoff power.

  Heather sat in an aft-facing seat against the forward firewall, and fastened her belt and harness, just as the engines went to full power.

  In another part of the airport, the part used by commercial aviation, two baggage handlers managed to take their break at the same time. The men, Hohsen bin Hassan, and Soofah Aziz Labib, were citizens of the Kingdom of Qambari Arabia, but both were working in the United States on permanent visas.

  As the two men were in highly sensitive jobs, it had been necessary to vet them, then vet them again, in order to get them the security clearances they needed. The Qambari embassy had been most helpful in facilitating all of the paperwork.

  “Where is he now?” Hassan asked, speaking of the Gulfstream IV.

  “He is over there,” Labib said, pointing to the very expensive bus
iness jet that was just now beginning its takeoff run.

  From various points around the airport, people turned to watch the beautiful airplane as it gathered speed, rotated, then, tucking away its landing gear, took up a sixty-degree climb to get itself cleared, quickly, from terminal airspace traffic.

  Hassan and Labib stepped out to the edge of the luggage area apron to watch the airplane climbing beautifully against the backdrop of a large, billowing white cloud. Labib turned on a small pocket radio, then tuned it in to the frequency of departure control so they could listen in to the pilot’s conversation with various control agencies.

  “You are sure it is aboard?” Hassan asked.

  “Yes. When they were not looking, I put it in the pilot’s briefcase.”

  “What altitude is it set for?” Hassan asked.

  “Eighteen thousand,” Labib replied.

  “Nashville Departure, this is GS Four, reporting fifteen thousand, request altitude and route clearance IFR to LAX,” the radio said.

  “Climb to three-zero-thousand feet, take up a heading of two-seven-zero until clear of Nashville airspace.”

  “Roger, climbing to three-zero-thousand.”

  Moments after the last radio transmission there was a flash, high in the air. The flash was followed by a puff of smoke, and bits and pieces of wreckage coming down. It took almost fifteen seconds for the sound of the explosion to reach the ground.

  Hassan and Labib saw the explosion, then, silently shook hands.

  “Allah will be pleased,” Labib said.

  “And so will Prince Azeer,” Hassan replied. Hassan pulled out his cell phone and made a call.

  “The Satan of the oil fields is no more,” Hassan said when Azeer answered.

  “Good. It is time for the next step.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Office of the secretary of the army, Washington, D.C.

  “You are sure they said the Satan of the oil fields is no more?” Giles asked.