by DJ Scott
Karen Hiller looked intently at Baker, her chin resting on her hand. “Oh, go ahead then, Sonny. See if you can salvage something from this mess.”
There were a few raised eyebrows at Hiller giving in, but no one doubted that if anything went wrong she would exact a heavy political price.
Hiller suddenly stood to leave. Her staff, caught off guard, all shot out of their chairs. “And Sonny, I do not want that bastard Forrest writing up a bunch of Medal of Honor citations. He has been working the back channels, trying to undermine us, and we do not need any more publicity than absolutely necessary.” She turned towards the door, but added on her way out, “I told the President not to nominate him. He has no political sense at all.”
As Karen Hiller burst out of the Situation Room, less than two miles away Daniel Forrest was smiling broadly as he made a flurry of encrypted telephone calls. The list was long, but the first was to Colonel Aaron Mark aboard Essex.
Chapter 67
September 14, 2017 (1330 Z, 1630 AST)
USS Bataan, Gulf of Aden
Instructions from Sonny Baker’s National Security Council worked their way quickly through the chain of command.
In less than an hour, Castelli’s staff interviewed everyone from the 584 not currently on the operating table. It was quickly evident, however, that none of the sailors or Marines had seen anything that could be interpreted as the warhead being moved. Disappointed, they decided to get everyone together as a group and see if a different dynamic might bring out something that hinted where the sixth warhead had been concealed—if, indeed, it was ever in Arad.
The intel staff, led by Commander Ray Hansen—who had been briefed by his counterparts on Essex and Iwo Jima—gathered the survivors in any condition to talk in a small conference room and went through the entire operation—again.
“So nothing visible on the roads heading to or from Arad during your approach?”
McGregor, exhausted and in a lot of pain, had already answered this question several times. “Nothing I could see. Didn’t they have Predators up? Wouldn’t our intel people have seen more than I could see?”
“Look Commander, work with us here. A nuclear weapon is missing and we need to cover every possibility.”
“Guys, I just didn’t see anything that wasn’t ours going into or out of Arad. I was busy most of the time with casualties.”
They next spent time with Singh and Campbell, who were trained in intelligence gathering and gave answers that were detailed and precise. McGregor could tell both had gone through intel debriefs many times in the past.
“The one thing I found unusual,” Singh said, “was the number of tiny—and well concealed— cell towers throughout the town. The briefing materials said nothing about a local cell network. No doubt, that’s how they coordinated their defense.”
“You’re right; the intel guys on Iwo Jima told us the decision was made not to do much electronic surveillance before the op.”
“Wouldn’t have mattered,” said Singh. “The smart thing would have been to activate it only after we landed. It does suggest much more preparation that we expected. Clearly, Arad was more than just a transit point. It sounds like the kind of place I might have hidden away my back-up nuke.”
“That’s a good thought, Captain. But it doesn’t tell us where to look. I just don’t see us going back there to poke around—not with the kind of defensive muscle they showed us yesterday.”
“Any other thoughts,” asked Hansen?
Both Royal Marines shook their heads and answered in unison, “No, sir.”
Hansen took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Okay, let’s run with this approach. Did anyone else see something that seemed wrong or out of place. Didn’t have to be related to the nuke, just different than you expected.”
This got more results.
McGregor described the unusual efforts to create casualties, but not necessarily deaths. “We saw way more leg wounds than we expected. Even after we had the warheads, they kept up with the IEDs and attacks from those hidden basements. It was like they just wanted us out of there and to make staying as expensive as possible. Maybe the last nuke was hidden somewhere north of the warehouse and they didn’t want us snooping around up there.”
“That’s a good point and the intel staff thought about that—especially with that one hour ultimatum—but the tech guys tell us that a nuke outside that warehouse compound should have at least given a blip on one of the neutron detector passes.”
“Unless it was very well shielded,” added Singh.
“In that case, we still have no idea where to look.”
Hansen went on, and despite a handful of good ideas and observations, nothing worth pursuing came up. He turned to Sgt. Leach. “Sergeant,” he said, “you spent time in most of the areas our people occupied. Anything seem unusual?”
“There was one odd thing. Well, maybe not odd, but . . . ”
“Don’t hold back,” Hansen said.
“Well, there was a bunch of junk the engineers had cleared away and piled along the walls of that warehouse—pulleys, pipes, cargo nets, things like that. I think everyone assumed the Yemenis had used them to move those big steel boxes. But one of the engineers told me that gear couldn’t even budge those things, that they weighed over ten thousand pounds.”
So are you thinking they—the warhead? You think they used it to move the missing warhead! Could they? How much do those things weigh?”
One of the junior intel officers picked up a handset and spoke for a minute. Everyone sat in silence while they waited. After two painful minutes he said, “Task Force 58 says they weigh in at about three hundred kilograms. Did they have gear capable of lifting that much?”
“I think so,” Sergeant Major Campbell said. “You could use those pipes to rig a tripod capable of lifting that much, and their pulleys and cargo nets would handle it too. But where would they have moved it?”
“Well, there were at least three shovels in that pile of junk,” Sergeant Leach said.
“Really?” Hansen said.
Chapter 68
September 15, 2017 1100Z (0700 local)
White House Situation Room
Harvey Lyon had just briefed the President on the discovery of radioactive particles in both New York and the District. “Looks like Nazer is pulling the same trick as he pulled in Europe. Divert scarce resources and try to create a public panic.”
“Exactly,” said Brendan Wallace. “But what does that tell us? Is he using this to conceal the real nuke or just distract us and keep us from looking elsewhere?”
“Too soon to tell, Mr. President,” Sonny Baker said.
“Dammit, we’re behind the curve. Nazer keeps us jumping to his tune while we accomplish nothing. And what about that call you got last night from that bastard? ” The President pointed at Sonny Baker. “I give a simple order and the next day some skipper blows up a bunch of Yemeni vehicles and beaches a landing craft. Is that thing under control?”
“The skipper and his XO have been relieved and are being flown back to Norfolk. SURFLANT will deal with them. Most of the people he pulled out were wounded and are getting care on Baatan or have been flown to military hospitals. The two Royal Marines were also flown off.” Sonny Baker desperately wanted to move the discussion along and away from what was already being called “The Baatan Mutiny.”
“There were Brits in that group? Who the hell authorized that?”
“Uh, you did sir. You may recall that Admiral Tucker wanted to exclude the British, but that you overruled him.”
“Right, right. Well, hopefully we can count on them to keep this all to themselves. Sonny, see if those two could be posted somewhere remote for a while?”
Baker, who was not concerned about the Royal Marines, replied, “Of course, sir.” Hoping to move on he looked to Alex Clarkson.
> “Alex, anything from CIA?”
“Not much. There was a conversation one of my ops people had with the intel chief on Baatan.”
Baker groaned, silently he hoped, at the continued mention of Baatan. “And?”
“Well, one of the people they took aboard described seeing shovels and materials like pipe and cargo nets in the warehouse where the warheads were stored. They think they might have dragged one nuke out back and buried it.”
“So they just buried it in the back yard. Like a buried treasure. For God’s sake Alex, is that the best they could come up with?” Karen Hiller’s temper was beginning to flare and the meeting was less than five minutes old.
“It’s not solid, I agree. But it’s at least plausible.”
“Alex, you are absolutely not going to overfly that site and you’re sure as hell not going to put anyone on the ground. A little remote surveillance and that’s it. We can’t afford to waste high level assets on this crap. Are you hearing me?”
“Minimal assets and nothing remotely in or over Arad unless it’s in orbit. Got it.”
“Have you been working anything more promising?”
“We’re working our Saudi contacts, but not much so far. We’re trying to screen aircraft that leave Mukalla after they land, though a lot of flights go into places like Sudan and Somalia where our assets are pretty thin. The Navy is still using helicopters to screen ships leaving Mukalla and other ports in eastern Yemen, but assets are way less than potential targets.”
“So the short answer is no. Unless someone has something useful to add this meeting is over. We need action, and I mean now. We will meet every twelve hours until we get it.”
Chapter 69
September 17, 2017 1015Z (0615 EDT)
Central Intelligence Agency, Langley VA
The office assigned to Project Doorstop was cramped, chilled from the excessive air conditioning required to cool the hardware, and smelled of stale coffee and yesterday’s pizza. There, the three junior analysts reviewed every source of satellite imaging capable of showing the warehouse in Arad and specifically the attached, small, walled courtyard—overhead and off axis, real-time video and archived stills, daytime images and night-time infrared.
Bill Goetz, the senior of the three, was considering the wisdom of asking for more help when Kelsey Finch, the aggressive and most junior image analyst on the team, said, “I think we have something here. It’s from one of the old KH-11s and came in about two hours ago.”
“Show me.”
“Here’s the courtyard. There’s a shadow in the middle consistent with a low mound, approximately one by two meters.”
“Like a pile of dirt next to a hole?”
“Yeah. And there are objects next to it that could be a couple of the pipes the Navy reported. What do you think?”
Skeptical, Goetz looked closely at the high definition screen and said, “That’s pretty lean evidence, Kelsey. A little mound of sand and a few pieces of pipe. If you’re right though, they probably dug the damn thing up. But if they did, where the hell is it now?”
“Well, the bridge to the south is still down so it sure didn’t go that way. Only option is north. There isn’t much traffic on that road now so we may be able to locate it. We have authority to retask that new bird if we get a good lead. I think this is it!”
“Not so fast,” said Goetz, “you know what it costs to retask one of those intel birds? If we’re wrong, they probably won’t give us another chance.”
“Yeah, but if that nuke gets away because you were too cautious we’ll probably end up tracking drug mules—or something even worse.” Kelsey Finch was positive this was the lead they had been looking for and she was not about to let it slip away.
“Okay, how about this? If I’m wrong I’ll fix you up with Lydia Karpenko, we run together three days a week.”
Goetz, suddenly interested, replied, “Isn’t she the Russian translator with the big . . . ”
“Yeah, she’s the one. Well? There’s no time to waste here Bill.”
“You’re on,” said Goetz who was already dialing their contact engineer at the NRO, the National Reconnaissance Office, which actually operates the intelligence satellites. After providing exact coordinates to NRO, Goetz sat back in his chair. “In twenty minutes we’ll have a pass which should image the entire highway north from Arad to the Saudi border. We can watch in real-time. When is Andy due in?”
“Any time. He’s supposed to relieve me, but no way I’m leaving.” She took several big gulps of an energy drink and typed furiously on her keyboard.
When real-time video began streaming in twenty minutes later all three analysts were fixated on their monitors. Each looked at slightly different angles and contrast, but the information was essentially the same.
As empty highway rolled past, each became more and more pessimistic, though Bill Goetz’ potential disappointment was tempered by the thought of an evening with the buxom translator. But then there it was. A truck led by a smaller vehicle, probably a large SUV, about an hour south of the Saudi border. They were obviously traveling together and the combination was highly suspicious. Goetz grabbed his secure line and dialed a number he had been provided at the National Military Command Center. The NMCC watch officer made several quick calls, the first of which was to Sonny Baker.
Chapter 70
September 17, 2017 1845Z (1445 EDT)
Office of the Commander Naval Surface
Forces Atlantic, Norfolk VA
Captain Joe Castelli finished his interview with the Chief of Staff for COMNAVSURFLANT in less than fifteen minutes. Once they’d landed in Diego Garcia, he and his executive officer had been flown on a circuitous route, which ultimately led them back to their home port of Norfolk. There, his XO received orders to report to the Naval Station at Jacksonville for unspecified duty. Castelli had been sent to see the boss.
The Chief of Staff had been surprisingly friendly. He’d ordered coffee and spent a few minutes reviewing Castelli’s written report. Then he got down to business.
“Captain,” he said, “I’m pleased to tell you that your request for retirement has been approved, effective day after tomorrow.”
“But I didn’t . . . ”
“Of course you did. By the way, would you mind re-signing your request? Just a formality. Paperwork.”
Ah. So they’d decided to offer him a quiet retirement in lieu of a nasty investigation that would end with a huge political flap and possibly jail time for him. SURFLANT was giving him the best deal he could, and Castelli would be stupid and ungrateful to decline. He stepped over to the desk and scrawled a signature. That his retirement could be processed in a few days was unusual, but when properly motivated, the Navy Personnel Command was capable of moving at light speed.
The Chief of Staff handed Castelli a stack of papers, which covered everything from retirement pay to health insurance. “We have you scheduled for retirement briefings and a physical tomorrow, then you’re done.”
“Thank you.” At least the Chief of Staff was slightly junior to Castelli, so he was spared the indignity of calling him ‘sir.’ He turned to leave.
“Castelli,” the Chief of Staff said.
He stopped and turned.
”Off the record, I want you to know this was not my recommendation. Admiral Piotrowski was apparently pleased one of his skippers had the balls to do what you did. And some very senior people seem to agree with him. When they saw the video from your medical department of the casualties being triaged, and the bodies unloaded, the brass understood your motivation. And frankly, the fact that those people you pulled out provided some intel on the possible location of that last warhead didn’t hurt either.”
Intel? Castelli resisted the urge to ask.
Apparently he didn’t have to. “Your intel staff was ordered to keep a tight hold on the debri
ef of those survivors. Apparently that included even you.”
“Above our pay grades.”
“No doubt. But whatever it was, it may have given the Admiral just enough leverage to get you this retirement. Even so, you must have known how it would end.”
“I did. From the moment I heard McGregor’s voice on the radio, I knew exactly how it would end. Please thank the Admiral for his consideration. And can you tell me what’s happening to my XO? He’s a good man and does not deserve to go down with me.”
“He’s been sent to a staff job at Jacksonville. This won’t help his career, but it won’t end it, either.”
Castelli doubted that. There was an old saying that dominated Navy thinking. Things went wrong and you were there. Nonetheless, the Admiral was again doing the best he could. “What about Colonel Burke?”
“Commandant seems to have given him top cover. Isaac Keen down at MARCENT either agreed with him or had his arm twisted. Last I heard, Burke is walking away clean. Might catch up with him if he ever gets to flag rank, but for the moment the Corps is looking after its own.”
Castelli nodded and again turned to leave.
“Captain, just a moment. A Marine Corps messenger is waiting for you in my outer office. Came down from DC this morning. Said he has an envelope for you to be delivered personally.” He picked up his phone and directed his yeoman to find the Marine.
On the way out Joe Castelli was handed a plain envelope with, ‘Captain Joseph Castelli, USN –eyes only’ written on it. Inside there was a single sheet of stationery labeled Headquarters Marine Corps, with a handwritten note.
“Captain, circumstances preclude any formal recognition of your service.
Nonetheless I want to thank you personally for your courage and your sacrifice.