Short Season

by DJ Scott

  Nazer quickly grasped what his nephew was suggesting. “How could we deliver the weapons? And how could the Americans be blamed? We possess a small number of Chinese ballistic missiles, but the King would never consent to such an attack. Besides, satellites would pinpoint the launch site.”

  “Not missiles, Uncle. Trucks.”

  “The warheads could be shipped to al-Mukalla and then on to Saudi Arabia in shipping containers. A new set of container numbers would be arranged before going on to Kuwait City. The Kuwaitis have little trouble moving trucks into Iraq. Once in Iraq, in Basra perhaps, we again alter the containers so it looks like they originated in Iraq and drive them into Iran. Most of the contents will be legitimate goods.”

  “And we have many loyal Sunni brothers in Iraq who will gladly assist us in the holy project,” his uncle added.

  Thus ‘the project’ was born. Now the American attack on Iran had left the Iranians critically weakened with their nuclear capability erased. And the vicious combat on Qeshm made the possibility of an American nuclear attack credible to the people of the region. The timing was perfect!

  Now Nazer dialed a number on his secure satellite phone. It was answered on the second ring. Ali, his nephew and a company commander in Nazer’s small army, was sullen, as usual.

  “Ali,” said Nazer, “meet me in Mukalla in two days. I will have an important assignment for you.” The phrase ‘important assignment’ was their code for delivery of the warheads.

  “Yes Uncle, I will be there,” replied the young man, now filled with enthusiasm.

  “Travel safely.”

  Chapter 24

  September 6, 2017 1800Z (1400 EDT)

  The White House Situation Room

  Sonny Baker looked around the table and did not like what he saw. The number of people attending the briefings was getting bigger every day. Karen Hiller, in a grey Armani suit and no jewelry save an American flag lapel pin, arrived last. She was now attending every meeting, and reminding him at every meeting that she represented the President. Hiller nodded at Baker, signaling he was now free to begin.

  Baker sighed and returned his focus to the business at hand. On the upside there had been some buzz about significant new developments. “Let’s get started. Alex, I’m told you have something.”

  The CIA Director had been handling the briefings personally, and to Baker’s surprise had so far avoided the grandstanding typical of his predecessors.

  “Several interesting developments, actually. First, a British asset was contacted by Janos. He had acquired the Permissive Action Link operating manual and got it translated into Arabic. Unfortunately, he didn’t inform the Brits until after he made the handoff.”

  “What the hell?” Karen Hiller rarely lost her composure, but she was obviously incensed by this gaffe. “How did they let that happen?”

  “Their source was pretty open with them. Said if he had told them ahead of time they would have altered the document, the buyers would likely figure that out, and in the end the op would be blown and he would probably get himself killed. Reasonable, from his point of view at least.”

  Though not from theirs. But Baker had other things to worry about. “Where’s the document now?”

  “They tracked the courier to Dubai, where he was picked up at the airport by a vehicle registered to a Saudi rental agency. They’ve been heading southwest and are now on that new road the Saudis built into Yemen.”

  “Yemen? That’s a new twist.” Baker seemed puzzled.

  Clarkson nodded. “Remember that the warlord, or whatever he calls himself, of eastern Yemen has close family ties in Saudi Arabia. In fact his cousin, Muhammad Nazer, is a major player in the Oil Ministry.

  Jean Kraus from ONI added, “If I remember right, this guy’s father was killed by an American air strike in Syria while doing business with the Sunni insurgents.”

  “Good memory, Captain,” said Clarkson. “So the Saudi Nazer has both the resources to purchase nuclear weapons, and an axe to grind with us. And he has a cousin in control of an obscure port and a lot of really desolate territory to hide in.”

  “Alex,” Baker added, “keep a close eye on that courier. Find out where he ends up.”

  “Both satellite and a long range Global Hawk surveillance drone are following the vehicle.”

  “Good, now we’re making progress. Immediate update once this guy arrives at his destination.”

  Hiller said, “Keep me in the loop on this as well, Alex. The President will want to know immediately.”

  Clarkson nodded and went on. “There’s been some trouble with the Russians. One of our teams was following up on the shipping containers that went out through Tallinn. They encountered two guys who turned out to be GRU. The details are sketchy, but apparently one of them spotted our team, got suspicious, and pulled a weapon. One of the GRU agents was killed and the other wounded. Our people got out clean, but just before the meeting I received a Bearpaw intercept that SVR got wind of the incident and is asking questions. It’s likely SVR, and of course Putin, will become aware of the whole thing very soon. Probably less than a day. We don’t know how they will react, though it’s unlikely they’ll go public.”

  “Pull your people back, Alex.” Karen Hiller was emphatic. “The President absolutely wants to avoid any kind of confrontation with the Russians. We have our own leads now, and frankly the President doesn’t care whether the thieves get caught or not. Leave them to the SVR or the FSB. Our focus has to be those warheads.”

  “I agree, Alex. We can’t afford to have any more trouble with Putin than we already have.”

  Baker scribbled a note to himself. “We sure as hell don’t want them to know just how much we know about their nukes.”

  “All right, but those fugitives will have answers we can’t get anywhere else. I want the record to show my objection. ”

  “Oh don’t worry. Your ass is covered,” said Baker. “Captain Washington, what does NAVCENT have for us?”

  Neill Washington stood. “The Iwo Jima and Essex groups have arrived at Diego Garcia and have been fueled and provisioned. Ammunition’s been loaded to support a full regiment for ten days of combat operations. The Air Force has flown in the required vehicles that are now on the ships’ landing craft. In addition, the USS Ashland, LSD-48, has joined the task group as well. The Ashland has two large cranes amidships that can easily load the steel transport boxes with the warheads. Some specialized equipment was loaded at Singapore which will allow the engineers to open the containers immediately and confirm the weapons are there.”

  “Very good,” said Baker with a smile. “When will the Marines get aboard?”

  “We start flying them out in three days.”

  “The President wants me to emphasize the need for absolute security,” Hiller said. “We do not want this on Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram.”

  “Yes, ma’am. No cell phones or personal computers will be permitted. In fact the entire force has been restricted to the training area at Twentynine Palms with no communication in or out.”

  “Good, keep it that way. When this mission is over, the President will decide when to go public and with how much. Not some corporal. Are we clear on that Captain?”

  “Very clear, ma’am.”

  Washington was about to take his seat when a young Navy Lieutenant stepped in and handed him a folder emblazoned “TOP SECRET” in bright red letters. The Captain opened it and smiled. “One of the helicopters patrolling the northern Gulf of Aden just reported a solid hit on a neutron detector. It’s a small Greek registered freighter, the Milos Tethys.”

  “How reliable is that detector?” asked Baker. “How sure are we that we’re picking up the warheads?”

  “They’re the latest stilbene-based neutron detectors,” Rick Suarez said. “Very sensitive. And by overflying them at night we can get the detector relatively clo
se to the ships. Captain, did they send any hard data?”

  Washington showed him the report. “It’s a pretty strong hit. I would say medium to high probability the nukes are aboard.”

  “I want that ship boarded and searched immediately,” demanded Karen Hiller.

  Everyone in the room looked first at Hiller and then at Baker.

  “Karen,” he said, “with all due respect, you represent the President, but you’re not him. You’re talking about boarding a ship which is probably in Yemeni territorial waters. For an act of war I need an order from the President himself.”

  Karen Hiller glared at Baker for a moment, stepped to the wall, and picked up a phone.

  Two minutes later Brendan Wallace entered the room. Everyone stood as he stepped to his chair at the head of the small conference table and took his seat. “So what’s the problem?”

  Hiller outlined the situation and her position—fairly accurately, Baker had to admit. The President looked to him. “How likely is it that those nukes are aboard this Greek freighter?”

  Baker nodded to Rick Suarez. “Better than 50-50, sir. Some people might say as high as eighty percent.”

  “Not good enough,” said Wallace. “Too risky. If we move without confirmation, and they aren’t on board it will tip off the buyers that we know about the warheads. Also, the damn Yemenis will howl about our invading their territorial waters without cause. No, we need confirmation. Get it!”

  With that the President stood and strode to the door, not even acknowledging the “Aye, aye sir” from Neill Washington, and not looking at either Karen Hiller or Sonny Baker who, as soon as the President turned his back, were again glaring at each other.

  Baker glanced at Washington and Suarez who nodded. Both knew what needed to be done.

  Chapter 25

  September 7, 2017 2145Z (Sept. 8, 0045 AST)

  USS Jimmy Carter (SSN-23), 18 miles south of al-Mukalla

  Seal team leader Lt Jason Brown checked his gear while two of his men manhandled the rigid inflatable out of the Multi-Mission Platform amidships. The Carter had been specifically designed for this kind of classified SEAL mission and was, among other things, able to hover in a fixed location despite the tricky currents of the Gulf of Aden.

  Since they’d arrived on station two days ago, Carter had already conducted an operation which no U.S. submarine had performed since World War 2. Approaching the Gulf from the east, Carter was advised on her daily satellite communications update that a Somali pirate mother ship deploying numerous armed skiffs was operating in the area of interest to NAVCENT. Concerned because they might harass American inflatables performing boarding operations—or worse might seize the vessel carrying the warheads—a decision had been made to eliminate it, but in a way in which the US Navy could not be implicated. This meant both boarding and air strikes were out. An attack by an American surface vessel was considered, but rejected.

  That left Carter.

  That night Carter had tracked the ship on her sonar for several hours and had a constant firing solution for her torpedoes. Her skipper, CDR Dave Krenz, wasn’t comfortable destroying a minimally-armed vessel with all hands, but they were, after all, pirates—as Cicero said, hostis humani generis—enemies of all people, and had no protection under any law. They were also in a position to interfere with a vital mission. Still, he was about to fire the first live torpedo shot from an American submarine in decades, and he somehow wished for a target more distinguished than this floating pile of rust.

  After taking care that American surface ships and aircraft were well away from the area and that no local shipping was within visual range, Krenz gave the order, and two Mark 48 torpedoes sped towards the target from a range of two thousand yards. Without sonar, the pirate had no warning of the torpedo attack, and when the two three-hundred kilogram warheads struck, the vessel was blown to pieces so small that only the sheen of diesel fuel, a few pieces of floating debris, and a cloud of smoke remained.

  Carter raised her communications mast, reported the kill, turned north and proceeded on the next phase of her mission.

  The SEAL team consisting of Brown, Petty Officer Jim Brewer—the boat driver—Petty Officer Hassan Ahmed—the area specialist—and Carlos Ventura—the NEST specialist—were ready to go within minutes of surfacing, and as soon as they were away, the Carter slipped beneath the light chop of the Gulf of Aden.

  SEALs never liked any mission involving outsiders, but Ventura was a former Army Ranger and possessed skills the SEALS did not have. Like the other team members, he had a beard and spoke Arabic, though only Ahmed could credibly manage the dialect unique to this part of Yemen. The plan was for Brewer to take them to within a few hundred meters of the beach and from there the landing team would swim to shore. The tide was inbound so the swim would be quick and easy. Once on the beach east of town, they would hide their swim gear and don the soiled white robes their logistics people had provided. An hour’s walk would bring them to the harbor where, hopefully, Ventura’s lightweight neutron detector would get the information the President demanded. Each man, the civilian technical expert included, was armed with only a suppressed .22 caliber pistol. Discovery, even if everyone survived, would be a critical mission failure. Stealth, not force, was the point.

  The swim ashore went smoothly, and in a few minutes they were all off the beach, their gear hidden, and were walking towards town. At about 0140 they encountered a boy leading three goats. He enquired why they were on the road so late. Brown gripped his pistol tightly, but Ahmed explained they were on their way to the port to meet a boat arriving very late. The boy accepted this, and they proceeded into the largely deserted streets of al-Mukalla. Ahmed walked ahead while Brown and Ventura lagged behind.

  The port area was quiet, but was not deserted. Ahmed, moving very naturally, aroused no suspicion, but the others were noticed by more than one local—most worrisome, a security guard. As the man walked towards them, Ahmed stumbled into him, angering the man. When he turned to strike out at the bumbler, he was felled by a vicious blow to the head. This attracted several other men, and while Ahmed glibly explained the family quarrel they had just witnessed, Brown and Ventura drifted toward the dock and nearby warehouses.

  When they passed a stack of shipping containers, Ventura pressed his tiny earpiece to confirm the tone he was receiving, walked behind one of the containers, and nodded to Brown. The two strolled away to the east and were soon joined by Ahmed.

  “I told them this guy had dishonored my sister. They actually encouraged me to kill him, but I told him our father had asked me to be merciful. I doubt he’ll have much memory of anything that happened when he wakes up.”

  The trio moved at a pace that was brisk, but appeared leisurely. In just over an hour they were back aboard the Carter, and fifteen minutes after that the communications officer sent an encrypted report by satellite to the National Security Council with NAVCENT as an information addressee.

  TOP SECRET

  FLASH!

  THREE TWENTY-FOOT SHIPPING CONTAINERS ON DOCK AT AL-MUKALLA ADJACENT TO MV MILOS TETHYS ARE EACH EMITTING NEUTRON SIGNATURE OF TWO STANDARD RUSSIAN TYPE PLUTONIUM PITS.

  PHOTOGRAPHS AND IDENTIFICATION DATA INCLUDED IN ATTACHED FILE.

  MESSAGE ENDS

  TOP SECRET

  Chapter 26

  September 9, 2017 0530Z (Sept. 8, 2230 PDT)

  Marine Corps Air Ground Combat

  Center, Twentynine Palms, CA

  Mike McGregor had just finished his duty at the aid station, the small clinic in the training area, and was walking the perimeter to relax and clear his head. Since arriving from Michigan, there had been long days of weapons training, reviews of amphibious procedures, and exercises with the engineers designed to cross obstacles, as well as his work maintaining the health of his battalion, and his shifts in the aid station. He had been concerned by the constant com
ing and going of obviously senior people from several agencies, but mostly he was concerned about an encounter he had the day before.

  A man in an old pattern desert uniform pulled open the tent flap. “I heard you were here,” he said.

  McGregor looked up to see Rick Suarez, an old friend from his undergraduate days at Michigan. He jumped up and slapped his friend’s shoulder. “Good to see you. And why am I not surprised you’re part of this spook show. I assume you’re still doing the same job.”

  In a hushed voice Suarez replied, “I really can’t say anything about what I’m doing here.”

  “Okay, now I’m really worried,” said McGregor, only half joking. “Is this whole show something like the paper we wrote for that course in Public Policy? The one where we described the possible theft of–” Suarez raised a hand.

  “Best not to discuss old times right now, Mike. Could you take a look at my ear, it’s been hurting like a bitch for a couple of days and now it’s even worse.”

  Switching quickly into doctor mode, McGregor picked up a small otoscope and examined the painful ear. “You’ve got an infection of the eardrum called myringitis. Hurts like hell, but responds quickly to the right antibiotic.” He opened a green footlocker, took out a bottle of Zithromax, and poured some into an envelope. “Take two right now and one a day until they’re gone. Don’t worry; it won’t keep you from going wherever we’re going.” He wrote a short note on a record form. “Here, you must have a medical record somewhere, be sure this gets to it. They’re not letting us anywhere near computers, so from the Marine Corps perspective, you were never here.”