Short Season

by DJ Scott

  “So what do we tell the American people?” Karen Hiller asked. “The good news is that we retrieved five loose warheads. Bad news is that one got away?”

  “We can hold off on an announcement until we know more,” replied Baker.

  “No, no, no.” The President leaned forward and glared at his National Security Advisor. “There have already been news leaks about our going in to retrieve WMDs. We can’t say nothing. How would we explain the invasion of Yemen or whatever this guy Nazer calls his little empire? Have you seen those satphone videos of Marines in Arad? Just how do we explain that?”

  Sonny Baker shrank from the President’s attack, but he was rallying his thoughts. He was about to respond when the telephone next to the President rang. Brendan Wallace waved off an aide who reached for it and answered himself. After listening for a moment he announced, “Abdullah Nazer is calling.”

  Chapter 43

  September 13, 2017 1500Z (1800 AST 1100 EDT)

  Al-Mukalla

  Abdullah Nazer sat in his office and peered out across the calm waters to the south. The American ships were too far away to be seen, but he looked anyway. He had been surprised that the White House operator had immediately transferred him to the Situation Room, but perhaps he should not have been. The Americans were nothing if not efficient. What was totally unexpected was the President’s voice on the line.

  Nazer gathered his thoughts.

  “Mr. President, we have a mutual problem,” he began. Nazer spoke excellent English having attended a British school in Aden for ten years. This surprised the President as well as his Arabic translator who had rushed into the Situation Room.

  “Agreed,” replied Brendan Wallace. “But before I respond to that, how should I address you? Your status is not entirely clear to us.”

  “Mr. Nazer will suffice for the moment. The institutions of our small nation are still evolving and selection of titles is low on what you Americans would call my to-do list.”

  “Very well then, Mr. Nazer. To be candid, I don’t think we have the same problem. My problem is that you have, or more precisely had, six stolen nuclear warheads. What is your problem, aside from the fact you no longer have them?”

  So Wallace had decided to get directly to the point and was doing it aggressively. Had the President’s advisors argued for this approach, or was Wallace winging it?

  “My problem is that you have invaded my country and killed my citizens.” Nazer said.

  “And your forces have killed and wounded our Marines.”

  “Only in self-defense, Mr. President. But let us dispense with this political back and forth. You have succeeded in illegally seizing my property, items for which I paid quite dearly. I understand they will not be returned; I am not that foolish. What I want from you, Mr. President is to get out. Immediately! You have one hour.”

  “As you are no doubt aware, Mr. Nazer, we are starting to withdraw our people even as we speak.”

  “Not fast enough, Mr. President, not nearly fast enough.”

  “And here, I suppose, is where we get to the ‘or else’.”

  “As you are no doubt aware,” Nazer said, “one of the shipping containers is empty. That warhead was removed the day it arrived and now resides in a location on the East coast of the United States. In a major city, indeed a city critical to your economy. As you also know, the specialist fabricating the permissive action links for us succeeded in eluding your Marines. He has kept our associates guarding the sixth weapon updated on his progress and, under his guidance, they are constructing a PAL on site. It is, I regret to say, not yet ready for use, but it will be surprisingly soon.”

  He paused, but there were no sounds on the other end of the line. The Americans were at least competent enough to disguise their panic.

  To encourage your immediate departure,” he said, “I have just sent a photograph to the email account of your Karen Hiller. If there are Americans in this country in one hour they will surrender themselves to me immediately. There will be no ships in our waters and no over flight by aircraft or your drones. Violate my terms, and I will release this photograph along with the city where it was taken to every major news outlet in the world. No bluff, Mr. President. No negotiation. Consider the reaction of your citizens to this news before you make any decisions.”

  Abdullah Nazer then had the great pleasure of hanging up on the President of the United States.

  Chapter 44

  September 13, 2017 1510Z (1110 EDT)

  White House Situation Room

  Brendan Wallace raised his eyebrows. “Well, now we know what he has up his sleeve. Karen let’s have a look at that photograph.”

  His Chief of Staff tapped on a computer, and in seconds a photograph appeared on the large flat screen, which a minute before had shown the empty warhead container. The photograph showed a warhead, identical to the ones unloaded on the Ashland, sitting on a wooden pallet in what looked like a garage or loading dock. It was accompanied by three men in black head scarves, one of whom was holding a copy of what everyone recognized as today’s New York Times.

  “It has to be a fake, Mr. President,” said Hiller.

  “I agree, sir,” added Sonny Baker. “No way could they have shipped that warhead to the U.S. so quickly.”

  The President slapped the table. “Probably, probably! Yes, it probably is a fake, but we don’t really know that it was ever in Mukalla, do we? It might have been shipped here directly. Your SEAL team—” the President looked directly at Ted Lennox—“told us there were probably six warheads on the docks. Probably. Not certainly. Do I tell the American people that there is probably not a live thermonuclear weapon hidden in an East Coast city? General, what do you recommend?”

  The Chairman sat even straighter in his chair, glanced for a moment at the photograph on the screen and replied, “Mr. President, at the moment we are already well into withdrawal of our people. I’ll have to check with Admiral Tucker to be sure, but using helicopters and landing craft we should have everyone out within an hour. My recommendation is to proceed with the retrograde, and then begin planning for location of the warhead.”

  “So he has us by the balls right now and for the moment we should just give him what he wants?”

  “More or less, yes sir.”

  “Sonny?”

  “Not much choice, Mr. President. He undoubtedly has a lot more photographs he can send to the news outlets that will confirm this is a real warhead. We should, of course, do a close analysis of this photograph, but people who think there’s a nuke down the street will not be satisfied with some technical analysis of a digital photograph.”

  “I wouldn’t put too much stock in our ability to prove anything one way or another about this photograph,” CIA Director Clarkson added. “It’s been awhile since I did photo analysis, but this looks like a digital photograph of a print. We won’t be able to analyze the original pixels. For now we need to be happy we have five warheads, suck it up, and give him what he wants, which in the big picture isn’t much.”

  “Yet,” replied the President tartly.

  “Yes, sir. In the meantime we can get a NEST operation underway, quietly, of course—New York and D.C. being the obvious places to start.”

  Brendan Wallace looked at his Chief of Staff who nodded, her expression mixing anger and frustration. “Okay then, Ted, make it happen. No screw ups, no miscommunications. This is a direct Presidential order, everyone out one hour. Sonny, coordinate a NEST response with Homeland Security. We need results. And soon.”

  Chapter 45

  September 13, 2017 1515Z (1815 AST)

  USS Essex

  The flag bridge of the USS Essex was abuzz with activity when the call from the Chairman was transferred to Admiral Nathan Tucker. Tucker waved a hand for quiet and the entire space fell silent.

  When he put down put down the handset a minu
te later, every eye was on him.

  “We all know that one of the warheads is missing,” he began. “Abdullah Nazer has called the President and informed him that it has been shipped to an East coast city in the United States. He says they are fabricating a PAL and that in the meantime he is going to release a photograph of the warhead as well as revealing the city where it’s located unless all U.S. forces are out of his country by,” he looked at his watch, “1900. So by direct order of the President we will comply with this demand. There is no room for error. We don’t know for sure if that nuke is in the U.S., but we damn well know he has one.”

  Tucker turned first to his operations officer. “I need a plan in five minutes.” To his Communications Chief, “Get me Colonel Mark.”

  The flag bridge exploded into controlled chaos.

  Three minutes later Tucker had explained the situation to his Ground Combat Commander. “That’s about it. What’s your situation up there?”

  “Admiral, the SEALS, as you probably know, were pulled out by helicopter, which also picked up our people at the north end of town on the way back. My blocking force deployed west of the town is on its way down towards the beach. They reported no contact. The 1/28 is pulling out of Arad and heading south. We have a small force to cover the bridge, my command element, plus some wounded I had planned to send out by helo. My big concern is a group of Marines I dispatched to take out a small bridge to the northwest. We got a short radio call that they were under attack, then nothing. I had planned to send a platoon from the 1/28 up there, but not with the timetable you just laid out. They could have been ambushed and all KIA. On the other hand there may be some wounded, or they may have disengaged and are on the run. I do not want to leave people behind.”

  Tucker took a deep breath. This was the nightmare of command, orders versus the agony of troops left behind. “Can’t be helped, Colonel. Presidential direct order. I’ll talk to my ops officer about a pass by the Predator to see what we can find out. Give me the coordinates.” Mark did so. “Anything else?”

  “No Admiral.”

  “Colonel, your Marines did a superb job. Not your fault one of the weapons was missing. I’m sorry there were so many wounded. They were obviously more prepared than anyone expected.”

  “Yes sir. Our expectations were for a flank attack along the coast to prevent our loading the warheads, not for a delaying action in Arad apparently designed just to create a lot of casualties. But you know the old saying, ‘No plan survives first contact with the enemy’.”

  “Von Moltke, wasn’t it? I think they covered that at the academy.”

  “Right, sir. They covered it at Michigan too.”

  Chapter 46

  September 11, 2017 1520Z (1820 AST)

  South of Arad

  The group of officers surrounding Colonel Aaron Mark sensed that something had changed. Mark was outwardly calm, but those who knew him could tell this was just on the outside. His staff officers were chattering on multiple radios and tapping on computer keyboards. Mark briefly explained the circumstances.

  “Bottom line is the command group and the rest of the 1/28 will mount up and proceed as fast as possible to the beach, where we will embark on LCACs. The wounded will be picked up by helicopter along with the medical personnel.” He glanced around and picked Captain Kelli Moore out of the small cluster of MPs. “Captain Moore, you and your MPs will provide security.”

  Surprised that the Colonel even knew who she was, Moore said, “Aye, sir,” even though she had a lot of unanswered questions.

  “To be on the safe side”, Mark went on, “we’re going to blow one of the center spans on this bridge to prevent whatever forces are left in Arad from pursuing. Looks like there aren’t any of our engineers still here. Captain Singh, can you and the Sergeant Major handle that?”

  “Certainly Colonel.” The speech was British upper class, but the speaker—who was wearing British desert camouflage—was a tall swarthy man wearing a turban, a broad black moustache, and short beard. His left hand was bandaged with blood oozing through the dressing. His Sergeant Major, even taller, with sandy hair and ruddy face, wore a green beret. The gathered officers all looked at the improbable pair.

  “Looks like most of you haven’t met our representatives from the Royal Marines,” said Aaron Mark with a smile. “Captain Singh is a Sikh, a people with a very long and proud warrior tradition. Since the operation that discovered the missing warheads was British in origin, we naturally welcomed British representatives. They were kind enough to send two of their best.” Mark did not mention that Admiral Tucker had opposed including any British involvement, but the White House had overruled him.

  Mark wondered why the Sergeant Major had not boarded the trucks with the rest of the 1/28, to which they were attached, when he had ordered only the wounded from that unit to remain. Seeing the two together, however, he could see the senior NCO was devoted to his officer and would remain with him under any circumstances.

  “Keep in mind,” Mark went on, “that we have twenty-one Marines—two engineers and nineteen MPs—currently missing. They were sent about ten kilometers northwest of here to blow a small bridge. An hour ago we heard they were under fire, and there’s been no contact since. I asked the Admiral for a Predator sweep of that area, but haven’t heard anything. Keep an eye out right up until the moment you board those helos.”

  Mark surveyed the officers once again. He knew the sailors and Marines on the ridge would be boarding helicopters in about twenty minutes and would be back to the ships before him. Nonetheless, someone should be formally in command, even for less than an hour.

  Jim Evans, his operations officer, spoke softly, “Colonel, if you’re thinking about leaving someone in command here, remember that new Qeshm Rule.”

  Mark looked at Ken Barnes, his Regimental Surgeon. Logically, he should leave him in charge—he was senior and the majority of people in the helo group were either wounded or medical personnel. But he didn’t trust him. Barnes was a careerist with no interest in the Marine Corps, except as another ticket to be punched on his way to the top. Barnes face was a mask. The Colonel surveyed the other officers for a moment.

  This had been a bad day for the 1/28 and their wounded—and for their medical personnel. They deserved the best leadership he could give them. Captain Singh? That young MP Captain? No, the new Presidential policy that put staff officers in line for command was a valid order.

  He walked over to McGregor. “Commander, you’re in charge here until you get back to the ship. Okay, let’s saddle up. Commander Barnes, you’re with me.”

  As they walked to the Colonel’s Humvee Evans said, “I hope Commander Barnes is not politically connected. He looks positively homicidal.”

  Mark only grunted.

  Within a few minutes, Mark and his command element, five trucks and half dozen Humvees of the 1/28, along with a few stragglers from the 2/28, headed over the ridge and south towards the sea.

  Unable to squelch the sense of being once again left on his own, McGregor ordered the remaining vehicles moved to the south slope of the ridge and lined up for movement. One of the Marines with a minor leg wound asked, “Why move the vehicles? We’re out of here in a few minutes and will be leaving them behind?”

  “Do you see any helicopters?”

  “Um . . . no sir.”

  ”Then until they get here, we will assume they aren’t coming and act accordingly. First Sergeant Johanssen, take charge of organizing those vehicles. Be sure Sergeant Leach is able to destroy her comm gear, but not until I give the order. Until we’re on those helos we’re going to need that equipment. And if we have any snipers have them put eyes on that village. If they see anyone pointing a weapon our way, take them out.”

  “Aye, aye sir.” Johanssen was scribbling furiously in a small notebook. “Just to let you know, the comm gear has self-destruct capability so that’s
covered. Colonel Mark had all the other remaining radios disabled before his group left. One of these trucks came up with the weapons company 1/28, and there are a couple of M-25 rifles in the back along with a shitload of ammo. I’ll find some Marines who can handle them. Anything else, Commander?”

  “That should do it.” He shielded his eyes and studied the center of the long span. “Looks like our British friends are about to take down the bridge.”

  Sure enough, seconds later McGregor heard, “Fire in the hole!” in the Sergeant Major’s Scots accent. Everyone got behind a vehicle or on the ground. About thirty seconds later there was a sharp ‘crack,’ followed by the sound of groaning, tearing metal as a six-meter section of bridge fell into the wadi.

  McGregor inspected the fallen span with a small pair of binoculars. “Nicely done.” After a moment, he surveyed the desert to the northwest, expecting nothing, but wanting to make an effort to at least look for survivors from the missing Marines. To his surprise, he saw a scant column of dust and possibly—he couldn’t be sure—some movement.

  “Captain Moore,” he called. “Take a look at this.”

  She walked over and looked at what he had been watching.

  “Could that be one of your MPs?” he asked.

  “Let’s find out. Sergeant Leach, take a couple of people and check out that dust cloud to the northwest.” The dust was now just visible without binoculars and there was obvious movement. The sergeant sped off in a Humvee and returned in a few minutes with an exhausted, sand-covered Corporal Smith. Two corpsman carried the young engineer to one of the ambulances where Nicole Ellis started an IV and began to rehydrate him.

  As she rolled up his right sleeve, Ellis pointed to a tear near the shoulder. “Is that what I think it is?”