“She was working on something else for you?”
“She did, for us and the CTC. She asked if we were tracking the family members of OBL and Zawahiri. Devout Muslim men will go out of their way to have their families nearby, and we should be able to track them to where OBL and Zawahiri are holed up. The question provided insight into how she thinks and how obvious a strategy that would be. She sees things we don’t. Professionally, she’s a rock star in this business. I think she’s a welcome addition to the NE.”
“She’s more than a welcome addition to the NE. She has energized her division. Her insight and analyses are on target. She’s amazing.”
“It’s hard to believe she’s Muslim. We certainly think she’s amazing, and we appreciate her—all of her,” Lieutenant Commander Danny Cox added with a sly smile.
The two men grinned in silence, lost in their thoughts, knowing any shared or articulated salacious thought would get one of them in trouble with the HR Nazis. Cox was about to leave when Dolan, wearing an expression that showed he had something else on his mind, asked, “Danny, can you keep a secret?”
The SEAL assumed the topic was Ms. Cunningham and held out his hands. “Of course.”
Dolan closed the file and slid it to Cox. “Last night on TV, this guy said, ‘We have a righteous wind at our backs.’ It’s hard to believe it wasn’t a coincidence when you look at his file.”
Cox’s brows narrowed. He cocked his head in surprise at the quote. When he opened the file, he sifted through two inches of loose paper. “Who is this guy? He looks a little familiar.”
“He delivered the keynote speech for the Democratic National Convention last night. He’s the junior state senator from Michigan running for the US Senate.”
The dark-haired SEAL raised his head and met the spook’s eyes. “Fuck me.” He started over from the beginning, scrutinizing the documents carefully. The dispatches from Islamabad outlined how the tall, skinny man and his traveling partners tried to be inconspicuous, as they moved through hotels and markets before dashing into a mosque known for its fiery imam who railed against the Great Satan and Israel.
Cox flipped through dispatches and case officer notes until he came to the Xeroxed copies of British passports and visas under an alias, as well as a more-recent copy of the man’s US passport. Closing the file, he handed it back. “This shit could get someone into a lot of trouble.”
“I agree. I’m not sure I can share this with upstairs or the CTC, not even the FBI. There’s part of me that screams, ‘I need to wait and see what develops.’ The dude went to Pakistan and did the tourist terrorism bit, then he utters one of al-Qaeda’s secret greetings on national TV. In essence, he said, ‘I’m in.’ What do you think?”
“I’d say you have a problem, Marine. I’d take a page out of that Iraqi general’s playbook and copy this, then put it in a safe place.” He held up the file. “You never know when this shit might come in handy.”
“That’s what I was thinking. In this business, we’ve seen what happens when you start a file on some weak tit, and, before you know it, you have a real problem on your hands. I guarantee you the first time bin Laden’s name was mentioned and a file started on him, no one ever thought he’d become the most-wanted man on the planet.”
“You have a point.”
“Danny, I’ve got a bad feeling about this guy. The history on him is blank since he last traveled to Africa and Pakistan. He obviously used an alias when he traveled. You can see he went by another name with an Indonesian passport. He got into school as a foreign student under that name. Regardless of how he did it, if he’s a US citizen, I can’t have an official file on him. FBI would kill me. The DCI would drag me out the front door with my head on a pike.”
The SEAL shifted uneasily in his seat. The history between CIA and SEALs seesawed over time from good relations to poor to bad, then back to tolerable. The CIA was supposed to capture, develop, analyze, and act on the intel it collected and synthesized. The law changed over the years, stripping the intelligence community of effective methods and procedures necessary to develop intelligence on a range of bad people who were OCONUS.
The relationship was better in the NE on the strength of two personalities. The former Marine and deputy chief and the SEAL got along well. Military liaison officers, cast in supporting roles, augmented appropriate distribution of specific information.
“I’ll tell you what,” Cox said. “My guys will do a little research into this dude. If we find anything that’s open source, we’ll share. It might take awhile. You have funds for a little travel expenses?”
“Send the travel requests to me, as well as the expense reports. No renting Cadillacs! We aren’t the GSA,” he admonished half-heartedly.
The SEAL gave him a wounded look.
“Thanks, Danny. I’ve been thinking about this all night. It’s over-the-top strange. I can see if he gets elected to the Senate, one of these political dickhead appointees upstairs or at FBI will start poking around to see if we have a file on him. Then it will disappear into a hole. It might happen a lot faster than I’d give them credit for.”
“That would be the time when your ass disappeared into a hole, too. It’s never dull here in NE. That’s exactly why I hate politics. Thanks for sharing that with me.”
Dolan narrowed his eyes slightly. “Danny, there’s one more thing. We’re chasing a couple hundred Iraqis and Taliban. This thing is a distraction, but it has all the hallmarks of a fraudulent entry with bogus documents.”
“At the very least.”
“Just like Atta and the others on 9/11. I have to find someone at CTC to run with this. I don’t have many contacts there.”
“I may be wrong, Dolan, but there’s no urgency to do something. Maybe the smart thing is to let us research this guy and get back to you when we find something. If you think this is huge, you’ll have to tell someone at the CTC or the FBI.”
“I think it’ll stay in my safe for now.”
“That might be the smart thing.” Cox paused, debating what he was thinking. After a couple seconds’ silence, he lost. “Have you ever read The Art of Worldly Wisdom? Somewhere around chapter 149, it reads, ‘Let someone else take the hit.’ Maybe someone else should work it.”
Dolan leaned back, crossed his arms, and smiled. “SEALs can read? Who knew?” As soon as he finished, though, he saw the wisdom in the nugget Danny tossed him.
Cox stood and rubbed his middle finger across his temple. “I’ll let you get back to work.”
“Thanks for letting me bend your ear. That’s actually pretty good advice.”
“Thanks, Dolan. Actually, it’s a great little book.”
“The irreverent side of me is thinking that if I can’t find someone to take the hit soon, you have to promise you’ll tell someone if anything weird happens to me.”
“What do you mean weird? A fatal paper cut, rats gnaw off your toes, or you fall into a wood chipper? Something like that?” He gave a toothy smile.
“Exactly.” Dolan stood and grinned, one finger fully outstretched and pointing at the SEAL.
Danny Cox left the office, closing the door respectfully. Dolan returned to his seat and crossed his arms in thought.
After several minutes, he leaned forward and thumbed through the file. “Danny Boy, I think you’re right. I need to buy a couple books ASAP.”
CHAPTER TWO
1845 December 22, 2008
Lansanya, Guinea
A cold wind prickled his skin, annoying him further. It wasn’t supposed to be cold ten degrees north of the equator. It wasn’t the rainy season, but intermittent storms racing west across central Africa made it cold since he was soaking wet and exposed to the elements.
Lansana Conte, President of Guinea, hobbled from the Mercedes to the porch of his house. By the end of the week, he would be buried twenty yards from where he died on that porch, but, for the moment, the man 1,500 yards away dripping wet in a ghillie suit was in a hide. He couldn’t
shoot the old man.
The shot would be technically difficult. The wind was inconsistent, with approaching and departing thunderstorms. The house sat in a large clearing, with the only avenue of approach for a shot from the front. The only place to blend into the surroundings was a copse of mahogany trees split by the access road one mile away from the ranch house.
The man concealed himself well. His suit moved in the wind the same way as the surrounding foliage. His outline gave a three-dimensional breakup rather than a linear one. Over twelve vehicles passed within five feet of his location during the last three days. A black mamba raced over the heavy barrel of his sniper’s rifle in pursuit of drier trees.
Following a brief coup d’etat, Conte became President after Ahmed Sekou Toure, and, like most African self-proclaimed presidents, suspended the constitution and avoided assassination from within his ranks of supporters. After the sixth failed assassination attempt, when his favorite bodyguard was wounded, Conte went on state radio to goad adversaries while vowing he wouldn’t be manipulated by those from abroad. A Muslim, he quietly ordered his soldiers to attack people who gathered to protest his ascension as President. Instead, the soldiers went on a rampage of rape, mutilation, and murder.
One week after a seventh failed assassination attempt, a frustrated opposition party leader complained to the inner circle of bankers, lawyers, and other Guinean power brokers that Conte was destroying the country and needed to be eliminated from the political scene. The Guinean Director General of Civil Aviation volunteered to reach out to one of their many benefactors, first in Doha, then Abu Dhabi. The wealthy Saudi promised a very special solution soon. By the time the director general returned from his travels to conferences and his family in Atlanta, a professional assassin was awaiting him at the new hotel in Monrovia, Liberia.
It was a strange, tortuous road from world-class marksman in the US to soldier for hire in Africa. Tall, soft-spoken, Sam Miller, now known as Zaafir, sensed he would soon get the old man to stop for two seconds, so the heavy 300 Winchester Magnum soft point could travel the 1,500 yards and penetrate his chest.
The rain stopped, and Conte’s bodyguards moved in and out of the house, preparing the black Mercedes 500 SEL for travel and signaling a departure into town for dinner and meetings. Zaafir calmed his heart and slowed his breathing.
The stock jammed into the pit of his shoulder, the muzzle resting firmly on a large, downed branch. Zaafir recognized the signs that the President was on the move. A door holder opened the entry door, barking out commands to those by the car, which was idling with the air-conditioning on high.
He increased trigger pressure, the sights rock solid, when Conte stepped into the doorframe and checked to see if it stopped raining. He raised his arm and began speaking when a bullet tore through his chest. His last words were never recorded. He was dead before he hit the wooden porch floor.
The following day, the President of the National Assembly announced that Conte had succumbed in his bed “after a long illness” without specifying the cause of death. Six hours later, a statement was read on TV announcing a coup d’état.
“On behalf of the National Council for Democracy and Development, the government and institutions of the Republic have been dissolved.”
CHAPTER
T HREE
1530 August 29, 2008
Full Spectrum Training Center Hondo, Texas
“Shooters! Assume the position! This stage of fire will be twenty-five-yard rapid fire. This stage of fire involves two phases of six rounds each. Load and lock one magazine. Revolver shooter, load six rounds.”
The words reverberated from the public-address system, across the ten-foot dirt berms and down into the shooting butts. The speaker spoke in three or four-word staccato bursts to ensure being heard on the firing range. Movement at each firing station was smooth, fluid, and crisp. Each shooter felt imbued with an unstated sense of urgency. In seconds, dozens of bullets would be precisely fired into human silhouettes. For the life of a paper target, it was a good day to die.
Duncan Hunter stepped into his combat firing position, feet shoulder-width apart, and loaded six .357 Magnum rounds individually into the cylinder of his match-grade, six-inch, blue Colt Python. The cylinder locked, the ventilated barrel pointed up and downrange.
Greg Lynche, standing to Hunter’s right and perpendicular to the target, slammed the magazine home on the Beretta .38 caliber pistol. He pulled the slide back to chamber a round. Satisfied it was loaded and locked, he held up the muzzle at a forty-five-degree angle while pointing downrange.
Art Yoder looked over the ten shooters in the firing line, left then right. He brought the microphone to his lips. “Ready on the right? Ready on the left? All ready on the firing line? Shooters, you may commence firing when your targets appear!”
In unison, the ten shooters flicked off their safeties with their thumbs, aimed, and waited for their targets to face them.
With an unconscious nod that all shooters on the firing line were ready, Yoder pressed the big red thumb button in the control booth to activate the target-positioning mechanism. He reached for binoculars, as ten targets turned ninety degrees to face the shooters.
Immediately, the big percussion of the Magnum load from Hunter’s Colt overpowered the sound of the lighter loads of the .38 calibers on the line. His target received six shots in a tight, circular group the size of a silver dollar, confined to the head, dead center above the imaginary bridge of the nose.
Yoder glassed Hunter’s target. Holes appeared every second and a half as he watched.
After the sixth round, Hunter quickly opened the cylinder and ejected the long casings. A speed loader filled the cylinder with fresh ammunition. With his left thumb, he pushed the cylinder closed. Hunter’s shoulders and feet didn’t move while he unloaded and reloaded his revolver. The weapon barely moved.
Once loaded, he made a coordinated movement of aiming and squeezing the trigger. His next six shots formed an elongated heart in the middle of the black target, right where Hunter imagined a heart should be.
Yoder, smiling, returned his binoculars to the table.
When the firing line grew quiet, Yoder picked up the microphone. “Cease fire! Cease fire! Clear and table all weapons. Do we have any saved rounds? Any saved rounds? No saved rounds. Shooters, safety your weapons! Assistants, check all weapons for safety before releasing them to holster.
“Thank you, Ladies and Gentlemen. That’s a wrap. After you pick up your brass, I’ll meet you in the conference center.”
He removed his sound suppressors, placed the microphone in its cradle, shut off the power to the PA system, and left the control box.
*
Ten shooters walked down the center walkway to review and patch their targets. Hunger and Lynche stood side-by-side to admire their handiwork. Lynche, frowning at Hunter, handed him a length of black stickers.
“I’m surprised I even hit the target,” Lynche said. “When I wasn’t jumping as that cannon of yours went off, I kept trying to sneak a peek at what you were hitting. Nice groups, Mr. Jones.”
“Why, thank you, Mr. Smith. It looks like you got all yours on the target this time. Does that make you the most-improved shooter?” He tried to look away with a wry grin, as he peeled black stickers to cover the holes on both their targets.
Lynche waited until Hunter looked at him, then he rubbed both his eyes with his middle fingers. “One of these days, I’ll find something I can do better than you, Asshole.” He kicked gravel at his friend.
Both men laughed while walking back to the firing line. As Lynche and Hunter approached Yoder, arms akimbo, Yoder made eye contact with Lynche and nodded toward the conference center.
They walked off together, talking animatedly.
Hunter, still not part of the inner circle, knew how to keep his distance and thoughts to himself. He removed the Colt Python from his holster and secured it in a small, black, hard plastic case before he followed the two. F
rom his perspective behind them, a couple thoughts came to his mind. Yoder lost some weight, and his color wasn’t good.
Hunter filed away those thoughts.
*
The week at Yoder’s training center at the old auxiliary airfield near Hondo, Texas, was an annual affair designed to get all of what Yoder called "his protégés" together for a variety of refresher training, tailored to their special operating environment. With the exception of Yoder’s new capture, LeMarcus Leonard, a smart young airport manager with other fascinating skills that appealed to Yoder, all the protégés were busy with a defensive-driving refresher that would reacquaint them with the techniques of driving backward at seventy miles per hour, then spinning the car 180° to continue the same direction at high speed.
Before the defensive-driving phase, nine students conducted weapons familiarization, where every protégé identified, learned, disassembled, and fired weapons from around the world. That training was a holdover from Yoder’s Delta Force days. If there was a reasonable chance that one of his charges might come into contact with those weapons in a prisoner or hostage situation, that person needed to know how to use it.
After that came three hours in the fine art of bomb making using common household chemicals. Duncan and Greg had become master bomb makers and quickly assembled a smoke bomb from potassium nitrate, sugar, baking soda, and a urinal cake. They “tested out” when their amalgamation was smashed together and burst into thick smoke.
Lynche and Hunter left others in the bomb-making bunker to experiment with some of the new compounds in the latest iteration of det cord to see what was possible with high-speed, rope-thin explosives. After everyone completed the refresher courses, they were subjected to SERE for professionals, where Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape techniques were reviewed and practiced for business executives. All the protégés tried to evade being found and captured in a scenario where a hotel was overrun by terrorists.
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