by DJ Scott
“Thanks Mike. I’m really sorry I can’t tell you more.”
“You, your CIA pals, and a Marine infantry regiment all in the same place spells a big shit storm. That’s pretty much all I need to know.”
Suarez smiled, gave his friend a half salute. “Good luck to us all.” He then tossed two capsules into his mouth, took a swallow of bottled water and walked out.
McGregor was still chewing on this when he spotted Kelli Moore walking from the direction of the women’s showers. She wore boots, utility pants, and a T-shirt, with a towel draped around her neck. Her short hair was wet and the light breeze carried the scent of lavender.
“Captain,” he said with a smile, “got plans for the evening? I heard you used to play lacrosse, maybe we could work on our stick handling?”
She stopped. “Geez, Doc, you don’t give up, do you? I don’t have much time, we’re pulling out at 0430. You?”
“They told us 0300, then 0630, and now just ‘stand by.’ Hurry up . . . ”
“And wait.”
“Did you get the same orders, bring gear for an amphibious op plus one seabag?”
“Yeah. I suppose we’ll get a briefing when we get to the ships.”
“This is all very strange,” he said slowly. “A lot of things are happening I don’t like.”
“Such as?”
“Like all the spooks that have been coming and going. Not to mention the nuclear guys?”
“Nuclear, spooks—how do you know this?”
She seemed more curious than defensive. She really didn’t know more than he did. “For one thing, a guy I went to college with was here yesterday. We took physics together and wrote a paper about theft of nuclear weapons for another course. Now he works for a NEST team. They do searches for nuclear weapons and dirty . . . ”
“I know what NEST is. What about the spooks? I haven’t run into any agency types.”
“They fly in during the night and talk only to the big guys—regimental command and a couple of senior ops officers they brought up from Pendleton. I heard they flew in some kind of equipment too. One of them had a skin infection, and they brought him over to see me. Black cammies, obviously brand new. I convinced him I couldn’t see him without some kind of ID.”
“That’s crap.”
“He didn’t know that. Agency ID”
Kelli Moore wondered why the doctor was so concerned. She was good at reading people, but not this guy. Then she had an insight. Spooks, maybe he got that Navy Cross—and the scar—on some kind of classified mission. She knew more than one Marine whose trust in the system had gone out the window after a secret mission gone wrong.
He went on. “The way I see it, we’re doing a regimental-sized amphibious op, which we will only find out about while on ship, to retrieve some missing nukes. This many Marines means serious opposition. Remember that the mission is everything to the people planning it, and we are just part of the equipment. Casualties are just the price you pay.”
Then he did something that surprised her—and him—even more. He reached out, and for just a moment, put his hand on her cheek.
Then he quickly turned and hurried away.
Chapter 27
September 11, 2017 0330Z (0630 AST)
Al-Mukalla, Yemen
Abdullah Nazer sat on the veranda behind his office building, just a few blocks from the harbor. He sipped a small cup of rich Yemen Matari coffee while he waited for his nephew, Ali. Though Yemen was the world’s first commercial coffee market, a tradition dating back half a millennium, between climate change and political fighting, the legendary Yemen mocha had become almost rare.
His reverie was interrupted by some kind of commotion outside the rear gate of the enclosed courtyard. The door was opened by one of the guards—with a freshly a cut lip. He admitted a short, but handsome, young man in an army uniform—Ali al-Ahmar.
Ali smiled, revealing white teeth that gleamed above a short, neatly-trimmed beard. He strode across the courtyard towards his uncle, who rose to confront him. The only son of his sister, Yasmin, young Ali’s father had died in the 1994 civil war, a largely pointless conflict which left the ongoing tensions between North and South still unresolved. With his sister a young widow caring for an infant son, Abdullah had taken both into his household and had raised Ali as his own.
“Captain al-Ahmar, what was going on out there?”
“Oh nothing, Uncle. One of your guards forgot himself and failed to salute when I approached.”
Nazer was afraid it was something like that. Ali’s father had been cruel and impatient, quick to anger at any insult—real or imagined. It was unfortunate to see these traits now manifesting in his nephew.
“When you strike one of my personal staff, he said, “you are striking me. Never, and I mean never, do it again.”
“I . . . yes, Uncle.”
Nazer knew he should have corrected the boy earlier in life, but the past could not be helped. Besides, the needs of the project must come first, and in important matters it was always best to trust family. Even when family was a young hothead.
“Uncle,” exclaimed the young man as if nothing had happened, “You have good news?”
“The best.”
Ali made a move to step into the building towards his uncle’s office, but the older man placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. “Best we talk outdoors. I have my office swept daily for listening devices, but I am not so vain as to believe we are smarter than the Americans, at least not in this area.”
They both took seats in carved wooden chairs tucked back in the shade, away from the rising desert sun.
“The items we’ve been waiting for have been moved to a warehouse in Arad,” said Nazer. The translated PAL manual has been delivered by the courier. Our Iraqi friend . . . ” Nazer scowled at the use of the word, “has begun to assemble the PAL encoder. We should be ready to ship in five or six days.”
Ali stroked his short beard for a moment. “You are thinking you can use the new road to move the warheads into Saudi Arabia? Are they delivering them to their final destination?”
“No. They wish to remain in the background.”
“Uncle, isn’t it time you reveal to me the purpose of this project?”
His Uncle smiled and replied, “Today is the day. Circumstances have developed far better than anyone could have suspected. Put simply, we wish to eliminate the threat from the Persians. So long as Teheran dominates the Strait, pursues nuclear weapons, and controls an enormous military, none of the Arab states west of the Gulf can ever be safe. A truly dramatic act is required to change the status quo.”
His nephew nodded. “And what could be more dramatic than six thermonuclear warheads?”
“We also need to drive the Americans from the region. It is true they have provided a measure of security, but their presence inflames the likes of ISIS and al-Qaeda, fosters dependency, and ultimately serves their interests instead of ours, the interests of the Arab peoples.”
“But we don’t have enough warheads to target both Iran and the Americans.”
“Fortunately, we don’t have to. The Americans, in the course of their foolish war with Iran, have seriously damaged the mullah’s military forces for us. What remains is the heart of Persia, their cities and their oil production. As soon as the warheads are armed, we will move them by truck into Iran via Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, and then Iraq. They will move through a series of obscure intermediaries; my cousin now owns small trucking companies in each of these countries staffed by loyal men. In about ten days, we will vaporize their four largest cities. Destruction will be total. In a few seconds, they will be set back a thousand years. One container will be delivered by a small supply ship to their oil terminal at Kharg Island which will then be completely destroyed. There will be a lot of fallout, fortunately most of it will land on the accursed fanatics in
Pakistan.”
Abdullah Nazer, at heart a militant Sunni with a deep and lifelong hatred of non-Arabs in general, and the Persian Shia in particular, leaned back in his chair, took a small sip of coffee, and smiled at the image he was creating.
“What of the sixth warhead?” Ali asked.
“Even at a pivotal moment in history it may well be wise to prepare for what the Americans call a ‘rainy day.’ I propose we retain one weapon for unexpected contingencies. There is little that can be achieved with six of these magnificent devices that cannot be achieved with five.”
“But how will this rid us of the Americans?”
“Who will the world blame for this new holocaust? These are sophisticated devices. Who possess such weapons? Who is engaged in a struggle to the death with Iran? While Iran is not popular with anyone, the use of thermonuclear weapons on a Muslim state, even a deviant state, will produce such a spasm of anger across the Middle East that the Americans will have no choice but to go home.”
“It would be natural to assume it was the Americans,” replied Ali. “But I have read that scientists can tell the origin of nuclear weapons by analyzing the fallout. Won’t it be obvious they were Russian warheads?”
“It pleases me that you have read on this subject. The seller, this Janos, has provided information that shows such analysis is much less reliable than many believe. Besides, few citizens of the Gulf region are sophisticated in matters of science. The circumstances will dictate their response. Our family has connections with al-Jazeera which will broadcast the horrific details of an American nuclear attack on a Muslim nation. That will ensure the outcome we seek.”
Ali smiled broadly. “Perhaps our final weapon will yet find its way to the doorstep of America?”
“All things are possible. For now, though, we must focus on the mission before us. Get up to Arad. We cannot be certain that the Americans, or even the Russians, have not somehow found out the destination of these weapons. Some kind of Special Forces attack is always possible. Major Ismail, one of my best men, has a company at our warehouse and dispersed throughout the town. I want you to be in a position to block removal of the weapons should they be seized by our enemies. The transport boxes are far too heavy to remove by helicopter and there is no landing field nearby. Any attempt to retrieve the weapons would require removing them by road to the coast or to an airfield.” Nazer jabbed a finger into his nephew’s chest. “Do not allow that to happen.”
“Yes Uncle, I will defend our project to the death.”
“When can you leave?”
Ali paused for a moment. “We have some men on leave and others are out patrolling the back country. Two days. It will take two days to prepare for movement.”
“Very good, Captain. Nothing is going to happen in the next two days”
Chapter 28
September 11, 2017 0800Z (1000 CEST)
Porto Vecchio, Corsica
Konstantin Durov had a photographic memory for people. Much better than facial recognition software, since he could also identify individuals from their minor mannerisms and habits. He had once recognized a British agent by the way the man held a cigar.
His usual job was to scan covert video taken outside various London offices of the British security services, MI-5 and MI-6, and then compare them to arrivals at Moscow’s Sheremetyevo International Airport, surveillance videos of public transit, and of popular meeting spots near the western embassies. Once he identified a potential intelligence agent they were followed until caught committing espionage, or better still, compromised into working for the Russian Federation.
Because their informant network included both the military and the GRU, Durov’s employer, the FSB, had learned fairly quickly about the missing warheads. They had decided to withhold this information, at least for the moment, from their colleagues in the SVR to allow the GRU to conduct the search for the weapons. The thieves, that was another matter—finding people was their specialty. They also began an investigation of the Grishkovs to assess just how much they were involved in this act of treason. This, however, called for a degree of caution. The elder Grishkov had highly placed friends in the Defense Ministry, so the case officers decided to begin with some very discrete inquiries.
Durov was surprised when his unique skill was suddenly required outside Russia. He was given dossiers on three individuals from Severomorsk who were high value fugitives probably on the run somewhere in Europe. Finding and returning them was assigned highest possible priority, and Durov was to work on no other assignment until the fugitives were back in Russia. Or dead. He could travel anywhere, and expense was not a consideration.
Durov had heard rumors about the theft of nuclear weapons, so an urgent assignment to locate fugitives connected to a weapon reconditioning facility could not be a coincidence. This was a difficult problem, but one if concluded successfully would certainly push him even higher in the FSB hierarchy.
He began by scanning videos from St. Petersburg and Tallinn, the fugitives’ last known locations. The older man and the young woman were easily located arriving in both cities. The younger man was seen only arriving at St. Petersburg. Durov’s first break came when he recognized the couple—they were clearly acting like a couple—leaving from the Tallinn train station. The man, Kovolenko, who had left Russia with a huge beard, was now clean shaven, but his height and the shape of his face were unmistakable. The young woman, Anna Voronina, had cut her hair and dyed it blond, added very high heels, and a pair of fashionable Italian sunglasses. These two obviously had some skill at counter-surveillance. Nonetheless, her unusual earlobes gave her away despite only a second on camera.
He traveled to Poland, where he worked his way south and managed another quick look in Warsaw. He played a hunch and continued south. A combination of bribes, threats, and bravado gained him access to surveillance footage at train stations in the Czech Republic and Austria without result. He considered heading west into Switzerland, but stopped at Venice as much for his own amusement as for the mission.
He was rewarded by a quick glimpse of Kovolenko changing trains.
Two more days of harassing station managers, local police, and security personnel brought him to Salerno. There he saw the backs of a tall man and a blond woman boarding a small coastal freighter he identified as belonging to Theologides Shipping of Piraeus. It did not take long to discover the ship’s next stop was Porto-Vecchio on the east coast of Corsica. He used his diplomatic passport and American Express Platinum card to charter a small plane, which landed in Corsica an hour and a half later.
The French immigration officials, masters of bureaucracy, referred him from one office to another. Finally, after the exchange of two five-hundred Euro notes, he discovered no one from the Theologides ship Milos Oceanus had passed through immigration. So by this point they had European Union passports and simply walked off the ship. What phenomenal laxity in security. No wonder Europe was such a mess!
An additional five-hundred Euros, however, allowed him a high-speed review of several security cameras in the dock area from the day Milos Oceanus had arrived. And there was Kovolenko, wearing a black sport jacket and driving cap, accompanied by Voronina, now sporting a punk look, with nose ring and pink hair. They were behaving more like father and daughter now, another sign of advanced tradecraft for a couple of amateurs, assuming they really were amateurs. He doubted anyone else in the FSB would have been able to trace them beyond Warsaw. Despite their efforts, though, they had chosen their current location poorly. Porto-Vecchio was a small town, and a skilled investigator would be able to find them in hours.
As he prepared to leave the docks for his next stop, Durov noticed a furtive movement to his right, near a collection of shipping containers. In that quick glance, he felt sure he had seen the so-far elusive Boris Voronin. His beard was also gone, but his rat-like nose and closely-set eyes gave him away. Durov quickly drew the small Mak
arov 9 mm pistol he carried in a holster in the small of his back. The weapon, the primary reason he carried a diplomatic passport, was largely obsolete, but Durov clung to it as a link to the old KGB.
He walked briskly towards the containers, confident his suspect had not seen him. Moving past the first container he looked quickly left, then right but saw nothing. He passed the second and third doing the same. Again Voronin was nowhere to be seen. At the end of the fourth container he paused briefly, then stepped forward and looked left, the muzzle of his weapon preceding him.
The blow was as forceful as it was unexpected. He instantly realized the error that would cost him his life. He had looked left three times, and Boris Voronin, hiding at the fourth intersection, had counted on him doing the same.
The last thing Konstantin Durov heard was, “Goodbye, Checkist bastard.”
Alexi Kovolenko and Anna Voronina, once again blond and without the nose ring, were now aboard the car ferry to Nice. Just before sailing they had purchased a well-worn Volkswagen for cash. From Nice, they would drive north using Maltese passports as Adelina and Cezar Miklos. While not Maltese, these nondescript eastern European names would arouse no suspicion—Malta was well known for selling citizenship to those who could afford it. In Nice, Anna would acquire several Hermes scarves and a Fendi bag while Alexi looked forward to a new gold Rolex plus an Amani jacket to augment their cover. They could certainly afford it. Now that delivery had been completed, Alexi and Anna had access to accounts holding eighty million euros.
Chapter 29
September 13, 2017 0300Z 0600 AST (Sept. 12, 2300 EDT)
The White House Situation Room
Brendan Wallace sipped coffee from a mug with the presidential logo while graphics were loaded onto the wall displays. He looked at each of the assembled officials.
So did Baker. But if the President was trying to take a read on their true feelings about Operation Ocean Reach, he was out of luck. The Situation Room was the ultimate high stakes poker game, and none of these players was revealing a thing.