Lance began to walk away, then stepped back into the dark. “I think it’s a coalescing of things Arab and Russian.”
“That too.” Fuchs remained in the shadow. “Your intuition serves you well. I think that as time and events pull at the edges, the center cannot hold. The breakup means the end of one war and the beginning of the next. From cold to hot, if you will.” Fuchs undoubtedly had just repeated something he’d heard from Seibel.
Lance took this as his cue to leave and walked down the street toward Gablingen Kaserne. Up ahead, the Spaniards took positions on either side of the street and remained silently in shadows as he passed. He turned on Am Flugplatz and walked down the last street before walking through the gates to the base. It all seemed a little much and didn’t take any great brains to see something else was at work here. Something else was blowing in the wind if Seibel felt it necessary to bring in resources just to get him three-quarters of a mile to his base. Something had changed. A leak had been detected. Someone had been compromised. Regardless, it was all pretty exciting. And the months of waiting around were about to come to an end with a real assignment, something with deep cover and an extended timeframe.
Lance saluted the guards at the entry gate and presented his ID. He couldn’t help but smile. The guards found his smile a little irritating this early in the morning.
Chapter 30
Operation Desert Shield was in full swing and then some in the first week of December 1990. The Bush doctrine of protecting the world’s oil supply originating in Saudi Arabia necessitated action in the days after Iraq’s invasion of Kuwait in early August. The U.S. military build-up in Saudi Arabia included active and reserve Army, Navy and Air Force personnel and a bunch of pissed off Marines still smarting from the Beirut bombing in 1983. This purely defensive force included a coalition of troops from England, France, Canada, Australia and other countries looking to show their support of freedom, and free-flowing oil, of course.
On November 29, the United Nations Security Council had passed Resolution 678 authorizing all necessary military action to remove Saddam’s forces from Kuwait. The resolution took effect beginning at midnight January 15, 1991. Odds-makers around the world favored an Iraqi pullout before then. The leaders of the United States intelligence community possessed a vast amount of intelligence that foretold a different story. Saddam planned to dig in and keep Kuwait as the 19th province of Iraq by any means possible. These means included bringing other Arab nations into the yawning gap by goading Israel into military action. He planned to launch as many missiles as possible into Israel. And he hoped that at least one of these missiles would carry a nuclear payload when it landed in Tel-Aviv or Jerusalem.
The intelligence community had solid proof of missile capabilities, partly because portions of these systems had been sold to Iraq by U.S. intermediaries during the Iran-Iraq war. The possibility of obtaining nuclear material for warhead delivery had been uncovered in the preceding months. Geoffrey Seibel briefed the leaders at CIA, NSA, FBI, White House and military intelligence the day before Thanksgiving with news of former KGB agents offering nuclear fissile material for sale to Iraq. Competing KGB factions were confirmed in Iraq recently. Updates to this activity included intercepted communications and confirmed sightings.
“Just yesterday we received confirmation from Soviet resources that three nuclear warheads were discovered missing from a storage facility. The missing warheads were removed from decommissioned 1970s era SS-X-15 ICBM missiles being stored underground outside Dombarovsky, Russia.” Seibel said soberly.
The CIA Director had already been briefed by Seibel on this breach. “We have confirmation from multiple sources on the credibility of this information. This is one that the Soviets actually feel compelled to share with us. We are working together to track and recover the warheads.”
Seibel nodded and added, “Information is scarce, but all indications are that security workers at the facility were pressured to allow the theft to take place with the lives of their families threatened. Some were killed to get the point across.”
“Damn, this is nightmare stuff.” The NSA Director chimed in. “Just what we’ve feared the past decade since Gorbachev came to power. Certain elements within the former Soviet Union are significantly less interested in openness. Less money to make.”
“Correct.” Seibel wanted this meeting to move quickly so that he could get approval of his plan. He needed military buy-in and funding, and he needed it yesterday. “All of this has been confirmed, as we suspected as recently as last month. Since then, we have been developing plans that involve direct involvement with the sellers and the buyers.”
“Do we have any more information on each?” White House spoke this time.
“We do. Our resources have identified several key players in the Iraqi government and intelligence arm – the Mukhabarat. We are tracking their activities as we speak. Not easy, but we are on it.”
“So your approach will be to watch the buyers and catch the sellers when they show up, like a drug bust?” NSA again.
“Not quite so passive. We have placed additional resources in the market to intercept the sellers and the merchandise or potentially offer a counterproposal.” Seibel replied.
“To buy it from them?” White House this time.
“Something like that.”
“What kind of budget are we talking about?” NSA’s turn again.
The CIA Director took this cue and spoke. “We are prepared to offer an amount in excess of $100 million. This has been approved by oversight.”
“Damn.” White House exclaimed this time. “That much?”
“Less than 40 cents for each US citizen,” CIA added.
“Point taken, if you put it that way.”
Seibel interrupted. “We don’t expect to actually pay the sum. But if required, we need to be prepared. Folks, I need signatures for this one.”
CIA pulled a document out of his briefcase. “I have already signed.” He passed it to NSA. “This has been approved by legal oversight and POTUS.” The President of the United States, for those not versed in government-speak.
The White House intelligence director butted in, “I didn’t know this had been signed off.”
“Just about an hour ago,” CIA confirmed. No time for turf wars.
After signatures were obtained, the Military Intelligence representative invited to the meeting finally spoke. “Your operation has received clearance from the Joint Chiefs. Not thrilled, but they understand the need for military cover in the theatre.”
“Thank you. With that, I have what I need to proceed. I thank you for your time and hope to have better news to report the next time we meet.” Seibel rose and gathered his things.
“Before you go,” NSA held up a hand. “Can you enlighten us about your plans?”
Seibel had already stood. He leaned on the table with both hands and met everyone’s eyes before speaking. He turned back to NSA.
“You and your predecessors have asked me for a good many years to take the necessary actions to uncover nefarious behavior directed toward our country. I appreciate the leeway you give me and my chosen team members. While I cannot give you specific details, I can confirm what you are all thinking. We will employ the most sophisticated, newest and if called for, the most deadly resources at our disposal. Yes, this will include team members you have heard of for many years with Foxy leading a select team and our young Preacher deployed into the field. We will call upon military resources including Delta Forces. The enemies we are dealing with are capable, talented and many of them have years of covert intelligence experience. Add thousands of soldiers in the theatre and a vast desert full of uncertainty and this thing is the perfect recipe for something going wrong. It’s my job to keep that from happening.”
He looked each member of Account One in the eyes and nodded. “We will be successful. We have spent years preparing for this.” He exited without another word.
Chapter 31
&
nbsp; While there was no shortage of sand, wind, lung-coating fine particle dust and sun – endless frigging sun – in the vast Arabian Desert, there was a serious scarcity of US military Arab linguists. So it was that Corporal Priest arrived with other supplies and reinforcements in early December.
The Corporal had gone through an amazing transformation in the previous two months. He sported a sparse, shaggy beard, a deep tan and dark, almost black eyes. Seibel had taken Lance to a cosmetic specialist a month prior. He entered as a somewhat tan Anglo with dark brown hair and came out two days later deeply, darkly tanned with black hair, eyebrows, eyelashes and even pubic hair. His finger and toe nails had been dyed three shades darker. His teeth seven shades yellower and therefore darker. The contacts adhered to his pupils were basically permanent until they were removed surgically. Lance appeared to all the world to be an Arab.
The transformation involved significant weight loss as well. He had seen for himself in Jeddah and trips out to the surrounding towns how the desert sapped excess body weight from those who lived in this arid climate. He dropped from 178 to 159 pounds and felt more cheetah than lion. He retained muscle, but dropped all excess fat.
Also required from this transformation was adherence to the tenets to Islam. Lance took on this role with gusto. He had learned during his Arabic language training that words and their meanings were deeply tied to Islam. He took this cue and integrated all aspects of the religion into his daily life, through diet, exercise and prayer. He was on his knees before Allah five times each day. A darkened bruise at the top of his forehead was evidence of his devout life. He went entire days and weeks without speaking English. To fully understand the words of the Quran, they must be read and lived in Arabic.
He told anyone who asked and anyone who ordered him to shave his beard that it was necessary to form stronger relationships with the Saudis and Iraqis when allied forces eventually moved over the border.
The company’s captain, Reese, a hard ass from Cedar Rapids, Iowa, wasn’t satisfied with Lance’s answer and wanted the beard gone pronto. He wouldn’t have anyone in his outfit looking like a slob. Lance was very respectful but was also very insistent on keeping the beard. If the Captain had any problems, he could call General Hardwick at Centcom who had personally signed Corporal Priest’s deployment papers. This was of course a bluff, but Lance loved saying it to officers who had nothing better to do than ride a poor corporal’s ass when there were much bigger issues facing US forces in this “godforsaken desert.”
In his endless hours of Arabic language studies over the past couple of years, a deep understanding of the desert and Islam and the interconnections of these two was a continuing theme. Lance had come to this land as much a Muslim as anything else. Hell, he knew more about the religion than he did any other. Raised Mormon and moved to the buckle of the Bible Belt in Texas and then Oklahoma, he had been exposed to Christian beliefs his whole life. Islam offered a different communion with God.
It wasn’t hard though to see the cultural strife between US Army personnel and local Saudis. There was conditional respect for neighbors from the Arab hosts; and general, sometimes overt, disdain shown by the US visitors. “Towel heads” and “camel jockies” were common colloquialisms used by the “Ugly Americans.” Lance stayed quiet and continued to soak it all in. Walking among the locals in Hafar al-Batin, a tiny village along Highway 85 where the squads, platoons, companies and battalions comprising the 24th Infantry Division had built camp, he absorbed the language, the culture of the desert. Lance mingled with locals whenever possible, making friends daily and pissing off commanding officers something fierce. He pissed off many others as he stayed in character.
A few days after arriving, he was climbing into his bunk after praying when he was approached by a small group of soldiers wanting to know just “what the hell he was doing here?” Was he American or a heebie jeebie? Lance played it cool and told the three testosterone junkies that America was a coat of many colors stitched together in one big cape that covered everyone in warmth and comfort.
They laughed and stepped in close for a little “rastlin” with the newbie. The other soldiers in the barracks sat up on their bunks to watch the show, expecting to see a little ass-kickin. Lance was still in his thawb while his new friends were down to pants and t-shirts. The closest guy swung for Lance’s gut with a hard right. He was more than a little surprised when he hit nothing but solid mass in Lance’s midsection. The shot stung, but Lance didn’t show it. He smiled at the blow and gave each a look and a moment to let them think about this.
His Arab accent disappeared, replaced by a smooth Oklahoma drawl, “Boys, do you really wanna dance?” His smile was even smoother.
The private second-class in the middle began to wind up for a punch. Preacher exploded with three straight and sharp blows. Each started from his toes, of course.
First to the one in the middle’s throat, second to the groin of the guy who’d just punched him, and lastly, a shot right below the sternum for the ringleader on the right. Three simple blows, delivered silently with blazing speed and yes, decisiveness. Delivered with such force that all three went down to knees and then on their sides. Each stunned and unable to make a sound. Lance thought his Brazilian Copoeira and Jiu Jitsu instructor at a special academy he attended for five long weeks outside Rio de Janeiro would have been pleased with the speed, brevity and effectiveness of the moves.
He bent down on his knee to ask the private who had punched him if he was okay. He told them all he hated to resort to violence but hoped they understood he didn’t come all this way to take a beating from his fellow Americans. He was here to give Saddam and his buddies a good whoopin, not his fellow Americans.
A few other soldiers came over to help the three up. They had expected more entertainment and a different outcome. But each had been given the same message about their new bunkmate. Don’t.
The platoon gathered around. Lance immediately fell back into his Arabian-English accent and proceeded to tell them all a few stories about the desert and camels and Bedouin women. He told how he had come to America from Jeddah as a teenager and worked as a busboy and dishwasher in restaurants in Fort Worth while finishing high school. His uncle, who owned several convenience stores had paid to bring him over to give him a shot at the American dream. Lance made up the stories there on the spot. But man, these fellas enjoyed them. His telling of his first time cruising Camp Bowie Boulevard in Fort Worth to pick up chicks on a Friday night had them all laughing hysterically. They made him retell the story again at lights-out when everyone had returned from patrol.
Corporal Priest was told he was to be at the disposal of Captain Reese 24/7. When Reese didn’t need him around, he could do whatever he wanted. But when the Captain called, he better come running. Reese had been frustrated for weeks not able to adequately communicate with Arab unit commanders.
Lance accompanied Captain Reese and other leaders, including a mash-up of Majors, Colonels and the occasional General, on visits with their Arab counterparts. They came to trust Lance, or Amjad, as he called himself in Muslim company, for his translation skills. He not only capably imparted the spoken words, but their deeper meanings. For some reason, he was able to see things, details others couldn’t. And because he was always reverential with Arabs, they shared more details.
During one particular excursion 25 miles north toward the Kuwait border, Lance asked that the motorcade stop so he could talk with a small band of Bedouins camped out a hundred yards off the road. Major Elles allowed it and ordered the drivers to pull over. No one liked the idea much because they would be out in the open, but damn, you could see in all directions for miles. Sentries were sent to the front and rear as Lance, Captain Reese and Major Elles, accompanied by a few badass Rangers, trekked across the sand to the Bedouins.
Lance, dressed in his flowing robe-like thawb, led the expedition and approached several men seated in an open tent having a spot of afternoon tea. “As-salaamu 'alaykum,”
Lance had his right hand raised and his left hand over his heart as he stopped about 15 feet from the tent.
“Peace be with you.” The Arabic reply came from a haggard man with a long grey beard.
“May I speak with you on this fine day?” Lance bowed as he spoke. The Army contingent standing behind him stayed back a respectful 20 feet as Lance had asked.
“Yes. Please join us for tea.” The haggard one was obviously the leader of the nomadic band of travelers numbering 30 humans, a dozen or so camels and several dozen goats.
“Thank you. Can my leaders join us?” Lance motioned to Reese and Elles.
“Yes. Please.” The desert man stood up and motioned the four other Bedouins sitting around the teapot to make room.
Reese stopped and whispered in Lance’s ear as he passed. “Five minutes. We need to meet the Saudis in half an hour.”
“Sir,” Lance bowed his head as Reese walked by.
Reese and Elles greeted the group with a round of “Peace be with you,” just about the only Arabic they’d learned.
Lance joined them and introduced the Captain and Major to the Bedouins. Their host responded most respectfully. “Welcome, welcome to our traveling home. I am Ramses al-Anfar. We are desert people. Goat traders and goat milk, of course.” Lance translated.
“We are very pleased to meet you and gracious for your hospitality,” Lance spoke to Ramses and smiled to the four other men seated beside him. “We are guests in your land. Here to protect Arabia from invasion.”
“We have encountered many military men in recent days. Allah help us from war and keep us all from death.”
“Yes. Allah protect us all.” Lance’s response elicited a chorus of “Allah Akbar’s” from the tribesmen. Lance turned to Reese and Elles. They too bowed their heads in respect.
Reese and Elles accepted the pungent tea offered by the Bedouins and drank to their discontent. Lance accepted the small cup that hadn’t been washed in years and drank on cue. “Wonderful, wonderful,” he said and smiled to all. They smiled in satisfaction.
The Perfect Candidate: A Lance Priest / Preacher Thriller (No. 1) Page 21