The Jericho Sanction

by Oliver North

  “Let's use the conference room right inside the door.”

  The group turned and re-entered the wing of the building that Grisham and Skillings had just exited, and the six men went into an empty room, just a little way down the corridor.

  As the two British officers and the man in the sweat suit entered, Buckel introduced them, each shaking hands with Grisham as he was presented. “Sir, this is Colonel Brighton, the executive officer for theBritish base commandant. Major Clift is the Royal Marines liaison officer. And this, sir,” said Buckel, introducing the thin man in the sweat suit, “is Captain Bruno Macklin, SAS...he was part of that Iraqi prison break the Brits pulled off. Captain Macklin wanted to meet you. He knows you were Colonel Newman's CO and wants to ask about him.”

  “How do you know Pete?” asked Grisham.

  “Sir, I was part of the UN unit that was caught in the ambush in Iraq in '95.”

  Grisham was stunned. “We thought you were all dead, Captain. In fact, Pete...I mean, Lieutenant Colonel Newman thought you were all killed. I'm glad to see you, soldier.”

  The general gripped Macklin's hand in both of his.

  “Captain, it's a privilege to meet you. Colonel Newman has nothing but good things to say about you.”

  “Thank you, General.” Macklin gave a faint smile. “You'll have to excuse the informality of my dress, but these were the only clothes the Royal Marines had to offer when I dumped my prison uniform last night. They brought me here to fly me back to London. The Colonel says they want to debrief me on our mission in '95, and whatever I might know about Saddam's prison system and the like. But before I left, I heard that Colonel Newman is alive and...in the area, so I had to try and see him. Is there any way for me to get in touch with him?”

  “Uh...it's great you're alive and safe, Captain Macklin. However, I'm afraid you're going to have to wait to speak to Colonel Newman. He isn't here; he's...on a special assignment.”

  “Yes, sir, I know. Our intel folks tell me there's a bit of dust-up brewing between the Israelis and the Iraqis, and Lieutenant Colonel Newman is somehow right in the middle of it.”

  General Grisham clenched his jaw, irritated that a highly sensitive mission was being discussed around the British headquarters. He looked at Brighton and Clift.

  “Sir, as you know, GCHQ is monitoring the situation between Israel and Iraq,” Brighton said. “While Captain Macklin was in the NSA/GCHQ SCIF being debriefed on his experience, one of the technicians mentioned Colonel Newman was in some jeopardy inside Iraq.”

  “General, is Lieutenant Colonel Newman in trouble?” Macklin said.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Well sir, if what I've heard since I was released is true, Colonel Newman is in Iraq, and the Israelis seem ready to go to war because they believe Saddam has nukes.”

  Grisham sighed and pushed his hat back on his head. “Yeah...that seems to be a pretty good summation of our headache.”

  “And Colonel Newman?”

  “Yes...Pete is in the thick of things. But I hope to be able to get him some help. I'm on my way to Washington right now to see about getting permission to send a special ops team in there to—”

  Grisham suddenly paused midsentence, obviously deep in thought.

  “What is it, General?” Macklin asked.

  Grisham looked at Brighton and Clift. “Where is the Royal Marine unit that went into Iraq to rescue the captain?”

  “We have one company from Four-Two Commando, near Badanah, Saudi Arabia, sir,” Clift said. “That's the unit that sent a platoon in to pick up Captain Macklin and the other three prisoners.”

  “What are they doing now?”

  “They were doing some joint desert warfare training with your U.S. Marines until this morning when your lads went back to Jordan. Our boys have two more days of independent training scheduled, and then they're supposed to motor back to Kuwait, where they'll rejoin their mates on the amphibious assault ships that are parked at Al Fuhayhil.”

  Skillings opened his briefcase, withdrew a map of the region, and spread it out on the conference room table. Grisham bent over the map.

  “Who has OpCon over that company of Royal Marines?” the general asked.

  “Sir, they arrived in theater as part of your Regional Reserve. But at the moment, they are technically under the operational control of MI6,” said Clift. “But if you wish, I'm sure London would agree to have them redesignated to CENTCOM right away. Shall I ask?”

  Grisham hesitated for a moment. “No. I'd rather MI6 kept them under their OpCon just a bit longer—because it's not likely in the current, ah...political environment...that I'm going to get a quick decision out of Washington to send any U.S. forces into Iraq to deal with this problem. MI6, on the other hand, doesn't have to answer to the Pentagon.

  “Look, what you guys just accomplished with this prison break,” he said, pointing to Macklin, “would have taken the Pentagon forever to decide what to do and when to do it—and then the details would have been leaked from Congress before we could put one boot on the ground.”

  “Shall I query our Joint Staff on this, sir?” Brighton said.

  “Let's run this through MI6 and see what they say first, if that's OK with you, Colonel,” said Grisham.

  “Well, sir,” said Brighton, “it just so happens that the two MI6 chaps who ran this little show, Thomas and Blackman, are over at the BOQ right now. They planned to accompany Macklin back home—but they seem to be the adventurous sort. Shall I hustle them over here so you can talk to them?”

  “Yes, Colonel, that would be a very good idea,” Grisham said. He turned to Skillings. “Gunny, it seems to me our aircraft just developed a malfunction of some kind or other. I think you'd better let Andrews Air Force Base know we're going to be delayed on take-off for awhile.”

  RACING TOWARD DOOMSDAY

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Babylon Technology Company

  Al Mahmudiyah, Iraq

  Monday, 23 March 1998

  2030 Hours, Local

  You sent for me, sir?” The small, slight man with thick, oversized spectacles and a lab coat two sizes too large stood in the doorway marked Director in Arabic, French, and English. “Yes, Dr. Aranul. Come in,” said Qusay Hussein. “Sit down.” Iraq's leading nuclear scientist fidgeted in the large leather chair. Educated in Bern, Switzerland, at the two-hundred-year-old French university for scientific study, École Polytechnique, Dr. Hiran Aranul was a brilliant man who always seemed on the verge of discovery. Saddam had placed him in charge of ensuring Iraq's nuclear weapons capability by the end of the decade, and Qusay, the dictator's son, hadcalled a late-night meeting at this clandestine laboratory disguised as a computer company.

  Dr. Aranul was more than a little fearful. He knew Saddam had a low tolerance for failure—and he knew he was well behind schedule for developing a means to enrich the uranium Iraq was covertly acquiring from France and South Africa.

  “Please extend my warm regards to your father. Please tell him we are toiling around the clock to replicate the work being done by Dr. Hamza before he defect—uh...before he was kidnapped.”

  “I am not here to listen to your excuses, and I do not wish to hear anymore about the traitor Hamza. I have something else in mind.”

  “How may I be of service?”

  “What I am about to tell you must not be divulged to anyone. To do so will be a capital offense. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I need to know how many Scuds and how many of our new Al Fatah or Al Samoud missiles are ready for configuration to accept nuclear warheads.”

  The scientist pushed his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. Qusay could see the sheen of sweat on his forehead.

  “None. At least, as far as I know. I...I have taken the initiative to study the missiles and their potential to accept nuclear warheads. I have also done some preliminary work on the required modifications, and I believe we could probably modify three Scuds and thr
ee Al Samouds fairly quickly. But ...”

  “Well? What is it?”

  “It's just that...Sir, I regret to inform you that we do not as yet have a nuclear weapon to put in any of them.”

  “That does not matter. For the time being, I have obtained three nuclear weapons—Russian-made nuclear 152mm artillery rounds—but I am told they are too heavy and too large to be used as warheads on our missiles.”

  “Yes, that is true. Most perceptive, sir.”

  “I called you in because I want to see if you can provide us with an alternative.”

  “Yes, I will do my best, of course.”

  “I already know it is impossible to modify the Russian nuclear artillery weapons for use in our Scuds. But can you remove the nuclear material from one of the devices I have acquired, divide up the materials, and then place it, along with conventional explosives, inside six of our missile warheads?”

  Dr. Aranul thought for a moment. “It would depend on whether we have the PAL codes for the nuclear weapons you have acquired. Attempting to disassemble a nuclear weapon without the Permissive Action Links can be very dangerous, but theoretically, the answer is yes. Of course, if one of these bombs detonated, it wouldn't cause a typical nuclear blast. Instead, the conventional explosive would simply spread radioactive material over a target area. The results of the explosion would be determined by the height of burst, the ground temperature, and the winds at the time of detonation.”

  “What do you mean ‘height of burst?’”

  “The altitude above the ground where the warhead detonates. There is an optimum altitude for this kind of weapon—the Americans call it a ‘dirty bomb.' If it is too high, the radioactive particles are dissipated into the upper atmosphere by the winds—and if the detonationis too low, it only spreads a short distance. In fact, if the detonation occurs at ground level, it might only spread a few hundred meters.”

  “Hmm...I see. What is the best altitude then?”

  “Again, it depends on the temperature and winds—cooler weather is better—a moderate breeze, five to ten knots, would maximize coverage from an air burst at two hundred to five hundred meters above the ground.”

  “Can the warheads on those missiles be programmed to detonate at that height?”

  “Oh, yes. All it takes is a fuse with a barometric—or even better—a radar altimeter.”

  “Do we have those available?”

  “We have them for our chemical artillery warheads,” said Aranul. “We could simply reconfigure the fuse to fit the missile warhead.”

  “How long would all this take—removing the nuclear material from one of the artillery rounds, mixing it with conventional explosives, loading it in six missile warheads, and reconfiguring six of those fuses?”

  Aranul thought for a moment. “If we stop all work on the centrifuge for enriching our uranium and keep the UN inspectors away, I think it could all be done in a few days.”

  “We do not have a few days,” Qusay said sharply. “I need it done in less than forty-eight hours. They must be fully operational by Wednesday night.”

  “But, sir...I—I don't believe that such a thing is possible in such a short amount of time.”

  Qusay leaned across the desk and squinted his eyes as he looked into the eyes of the frightened little man across from him.

  “Dr. Aranul...you have a way of telling me what I do not want to hear. Start modifying the warheads and preparing the fuses immediately. I will have the Russian artillery shells delivered to you tomorrow. I expect you to have them ready before the deadline.”

  “I understand, Excellency...but a question, if I may …”

  “What is it?”

  “If I am to take the fissile material from only one of your newly-acquired nuclear weapons, what am I to do with the other two?”

  Qusay's mouth twisted into a malicious smile. “I wondered if you would ask. You are to disarm the Permissive Action Links on the other two nuclear artillery rounds—I will try to get you the codes—and then, rig them up so that each can be command detonated.”

  “Command detonated? By whom?”

  “By the martyrs who have volunteered for this glorious mission.” This is why my father forged such a close relationship and spent all this money on Osama bin Laden, Hezbollah, and Arafat's Al Aksar Martyrs' Brigade.

  Hiran Aranul sat back in the chair. He was very quiet for a long time.

  “Sir,” he said finally, “can we be certain that the martyrs will indeed go to their proper targets—in Israel?”

  Qusay glared at the little man. “This is not your concern. But who said the two nuclear weapons are to be detonated in Israel? The Scuds and Al Samouds are enough for the Jews. The other two are for the Americans and British.”

  Aranul pushed his glasses up again. “What you are asking, sir, will take more people and more man-hours than I have at my disposal.”

  “Tell me what you need, and I will see that you have it. Meanwhile, get the six missiles delivered here from the factory in Al Haytham. I have already ordered two scientists from the research facility in Al Kindi to come here and help you. Make whatever arrangements you need for tool workers, lathe operators, and whatever else you require. I will give you all you need to get this task done. While you are waiting for the three weapons and the missiles to arrive, work on the electrical and mechanical plans you will need for these conversions.”

  Qusay stared into the face of the scientist. “Be sure you make no mistakes, Doctor. Your life depends on the success of this assignment.”

  Perhaps he had pushed too hard. Qusay could see the man shaking.

  “Don't worry, Doctor; that is just my way of emphasizing the importance of what you do. Don't be afraid. I want you to think only about success. When you accomplish this great task and everything is ready, I will see that you receive a great bonus. I will give you a brand new Mercedes and a new villa near my father's palace in Tikrit—all that for just two day's work.”

  The scientist tried to smile. “I will do my best, Excellency. I will go directly to the laboratory now.”

  “Good. I have every confidence in your ability.”

  As Dr. Aranul stood to leave, Qusay stopped him and handed him a paper. “Here...you will need this.”

  “What is this?” Dr. Aranul asked.

  “Those are the coordinates for targeting the six missiles. Make certain each of the warheads is equipped with one of these six sets of coordinates. I want to make sure that when the missiles are launched, each weapon will find its mark. Now leave. I must make some phone calls.”

  As he watched the scientist walk away, Qusay wondered how long it would take before Aranul realized that all six target coordinates were in Israel.

  International Scientific Trading, Ltd.

  At Tanf, Syria

  Monday, 23 March 1998

  2115 Hours, Local

  Leonid Dotensk hung up the phone and smiled. The call from Qusay made it abundantly clear that the Iraqi dictator's son wanted the three nuclear weapons very badly—badly enough to pay the agreed upon price without haggling. The Ukrainian arms merchant savored the knowledge for a few minutes and then picked up the phone and dialed a number at the Russian embassy in Damascus. When the operator answered, he said, “Has the general arrived yet?”

  After a pause, he heard Komulakov's voice. “Leonid, I just arrived here. Will you give me no peace? What do you want? And why are you calling on an open line?”

  “My apologies, my dear Dimitri, but it is a matter of great urgency. Our customer just called, and I must get right back to him on the terms for the three machines he has on order.”

  “Ah yes, Leonid, all right. I'm all ears.”

  “Well, first of all, he wants them right away, but I told him he would have to transfer payment in full before we could release them. He became quite agitated. He told me it was imperative that he have them by tomorrow night at the latest.”

  “Why?”

  “I don't know. But he is adam
ant about immediate delivery.”

  “Where does he want them delivered?”

  “He wants them brought to a research site called Babylon Technologies in Al Mahmudiyah.”

  “Where is that?”

  “Less than twenty kilometers south of Baghdad. I also told him that because of all the American and British aircraft over Iraq, we would have to deliver his cargo overland, by truck from Syria via the Damascus-to-Baghdad highway.”

  “You didn't tell him where they are now, did you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I wouldn't put it past him to try to steal them, if he knew where they were,” said the general. “Anyway, I don't understand the urgency. It troubles me.”

  “Look,” Dotensk said, “our customer has agreed to deliver one hundred million dollars in gold bars, and wire transfer the balance in Swiss francs to our bank account later in the day when the banks open. I think we should agree to those terms, even though it means he will take delivery before full payment has been received.”

  Komulakov said nothing for a long while. “I'm a little concerned about the arrangement, Leonid. A hundred million in gold will weigh more than twenty thousand pounds. It would take two trucks to move it. However, we can handle the gold. So...I don't think we should jeopardize the deal. The worst-case scenario is that he reneges on the final payment, and we get only a hundred million in gold bars. I guess I can live with that, can't you, Leonid? After all, this is the second payment we're getting for the same merchandise.” The general chuckled.

  “When will he send us the gold?” asked Komulakov.

  “If I call him back and tell him we accept his terms, I will tell him he has to have the gold delivered here tomorrow so we can verify theweight,” said the Ukrainian. “As soon as we have confirmed that the weight is correct, I will leave with the three. If our customer gives us an escort so we can travel during the curfew, I could be back here the following morning.”

  “Very well, I agree,” Komulakov said. “If anything new arises from your next conversation with him, let me know. I'll be back later tonight. Make sure you have someone standing by to turn on the lights on the runway.”