by Brad Taylor
Kurt shook his head. “No, sir. Not duck. They’ve already given approval for the three members to deploy, so I’m just stretching it a little bit. They don’t have to know Pike’s safe until after the launch. Then, they’re already on the ground. I want oversight, but by a competent body. Let the Taskforce get something done in Lebanon, and it will give the Council a little confidence in our abilities. Right now, they’re a bunch of handwringers.”
President Warren considered for a second, then nodded. “Okay. Get ’em into Lebanon and see if you can get a handle on Lucas. But they don’t do anything else without Council approval, understood?”
Kurt said, “Yes, sir,” and waited to be dismissed. Instead, the president rotated around in his chair and gazed out the Oval Office window again.
“You think this cash giveaway is doing anything for the peace process? You think it’s a good idea?”
A couple of years ago Kurt would have been completely taken aback by the question, but he’d grown accustomed to the president asking him things that had nothing to do with the Taskforce. While they both understood their respective positions, the truth was the president liked bouncing ideas off of Kurt. Trusted him as a man outside the political machine, and thus a person who could give an opinion that wasn’t tainted by whatever poll was in vogue at the time.
Kurt didn’t want to admit it, but he enjoyed the role of trusted confidant, even when the questions were outside his expertise. He had learned to caveat his answers if he felt he was leading the administration down a road about which he had no knowledge. Something else he knew the president respected. In this case, achieving peace within the Levant, he had more knowledge on the topic than ninety percent of the “experts” out there.
“I think any attempt at a reconciliation between the Palestinians and the Israelis is a good thing. Solve that problem, and you put a damper on every other issue in the region. Long-term, that is. In the short term, it will cause more violence. There are just too many groups who have specific agendas that cannot be met with compromise. And I mean both on the Israeli and the Palestinian side.”
The president returned his attention to Kurt. “That’s not my question. Do you think it’s a good idea to give the Palestinian Authority twenty million dollars? Am I funding terrorism? We have no idea who’s going to get that money.”
Kurt said nothing for a moment, realizing his answer would not be the usual pontification, but instead possibly alter the course of national security. He’d seen it before. A small comment in a roomful of people, then on the news the next day. It had always amazed him how national strategy was often formed more on the words of trusted advisors than the opinions of experts.
“Sir, I don’t think I can judge that. If your folks say it’s a good idea, then I’d go with it.”
“Really? That’s your answer? I could get that from my secretary. I’m not going to change course based on what you say alone. I just want your opinion. Am I about to give twenty million dollars to a terrorist group?”
“Sir . . . honestly, I don’t think so. Hamas is a terrorist group, and they’ve been funded by Iran for years. A limitless pocket book. They’re in competition with the Palestinian Authority for the support of the people. If Hamas wins that fight, there will be no peace. No way will Israel deal with a group that has a stated goal of the eradication of their country.”
“But if word gets out, I’ll be castrated. How can I overtly state we won’t support any organization that does business with Hamas, then covertly give that same group money?”
Kurt smiled. “That’s why you’re the president, and I’m just a talking head.”
President Warren dropped his pen and shook his head. “Great. Okay. Thanks for that vote of confidence. Getting back to Lebanon, what’s the next course of action?”
“Uhhh . . .” Kurt said. “Well, I figured you’d be agreeable to the team deploying, so I infiltrated some documents and equipment to Beirut. Pike’s linking up with it as we speak.”
President Warren gave him an incredulous look. “And if I’d said no?”
“Then Pike would have had some passports he would never use. I had to prep early to make this work.” He saw the president’s face darken and raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.
“Hey, all I’m trying to do is protect your peace process. What good is the money if the man holding it is slaughtered?”
27
J
ennifer saw a newspaper in Louis Britt’s right hand, the signal that the meeting was safe. She moved straight past the hostess and took a seat at the case officer’s table. Now that they could recognize each other, there was no need for the verbal dance to prove who they were. He went through the mad minute again, ensuring they both understood what to say should they be asked about the meeting at a later date, then passed her a key across the table.
“That’s to a locker at the Charles Helou Bus Station. Inside are the documents and other equipment you asked for.”
“How much equipment? Will I need to bring luggage to conceal it?”
“No, it’s in a backpack already.” He took a drink of water and surprised her with his next statement. “You people have been busy. Taking the fight to the military wing of Hezbollah isn’t the smartest thing I’ve seen, but it is gutsy.”
“Hezbollah? I didn’t think they worked in the refugee camps.”
His turn to be surprised, he said, “Palestinian camp? I’m talking about the killing of the Martyrs Battalion leadership. Hezbollah’s little covert assassination cell.”
“That wasn’t us, but it is something we hope you can help with.” She pulled out the screenshot of Lucas Kane. “We think it was this guy. Your Infidel assassin. Ever seen him before?”
He studied the grainy screenshot, then said, “Nope. Where was it taken?”
She pulled a tablet PC out of her bag and showed him a Google map with the location marked.
He said, “Heart of the Dahiyeh. Headquarters for Hezbollah. If he’s on the Martyrs Battalion payroll, he’s in very, very deep. Nobody will know his name but the top leadership. And like I said, they’re dead now.”
“Yeah. Like I said, we think he killed them.”
He scoffed. “Well, then forget about finding him. He’s already smoked.”
“I’d like to think so, but this guy has a survival instinct that’s on steroids. If anyone could get out of there alive, it would be him. Before things went bad between him and this Martyrs Battalion, they had to be helping him out. Whatever passports or IDs he’s using, they had to have gotten it for him. He’s not traveling on his true passport, we know that.”
“How?”
“His name’s Lucas Kane. The Taskforce has had a run-in with him in the past, and he’s been on a watch list for at least two years. Never once has that name spiked. We’ve also scrubbed the database here in Lebanon. That name never entered or left the country.”
He said nothing for a moment, thinking. “Let me see that map again.” He studied it, saying, “Hezbollah has built their own communications infrastructure inside Lebanon. A parallel system with the help of Iran. They claim it’s to help them defend the country against Israel, but it’s really just one more step to them becoming a shadow government. I’ve passed the nodes of that network to the Taskforce should we need to target them in the future.” He pointed at a building a few blocks away from the geo-tag of the Lucas screenshot. “That’s the central junction for the fiber-optic grid and a server farm for the network.”
“Okay. How does that help? You think we should hack the network? You think his information will be in there?”
“No. The network itself is pretty secure. So much so that the Lebanese government went to war with Hezbollah over it in 2008. The LAF pretty much lost, and the communications grid is bigger than ever. Even so, the Martyrs Battalion information won’t be on it. Hezbollah’s fairly open now that they hold a majority in the government. Even its military runs around flaunting weapons. But they have to hide
the assassination cell, especially after Hariri. There is a database, but it will be air-gapped. It won’t be on any network.”
“So?”
“It’s in this building. I was trying to get access to it to prove my Infidel theory, but had no luck. You get a pipe into that, and you’ll know everything about Infidel.” He leaned back in his chair. “But good luck with that.”
“You don’t think we can get access?”
“No way. Like I said, it’ll be air-gapped, with no contact to the World Wide Web. No WiFi, no Internet, nothing that can be exploited, so you’ll have to physically get hands on a computer that’s in the network. And that computer is in this building, in the heart of Hezbollahland.”
“Can you get us greater fidelity on where this computer would be located in the building? So we don’t have to run around trying every system we see? Can your source network figure that out?”
“Yeah. I already have that information. I just couldn’t get anyone willing to risk gaining access because they were convinced it was suicide. Add to that the fact that Hezbollah’s entire infrastructure is now on red alert because of the Martyrs Battalion leadership killings, and it’s certainly suicide now. And I mean suicide for a source of mine who’s Arabic with access to the building.”
“Well, we’ll see. Get me the information on the computers and let us worry about access.”
“I’ll get it to you, along with whatever security information I have, but a piece of advice.”
“What?”
“You white boys go in that building, make sure you save one bullet for yourself. No way do you want to get taken alive.”
28
K
nuckles watched the deck of the ship grow smaller as the Bell 427 picked up forward speed. He keyed the mike on his headset.
“Say good-bye to the QE Two. I don’t think we’re going to see the black hole again.”
In the dim light of the helo he saw Decoy’s teeth flash above the dive mask around his neck.
“Fine by me. That damn boat is the smelliest thing I’ve ever had the misfortune to sleep on.”
The QE II was the sarcastic nickname of a salvage boat that plied its cover all over the Mediterranean, picking up scrap metal at various ports and transporting it elsewhere. The company that owned it was located in Tangier, Morocco, and was ostensibly a Moroccan entity. It paid Moroccan taxes, flew the Moroccan flag, and employed ethnically diverse individuals, without a Caucasian among them. It was completely outside all suspicion to the Arab states it operated within. It was another thread in the web of the Taskforce; a profitable, multimillion-dollar corporation that existed for one purpose. In between its journeys, the boat acted as a floating transfer point, allowing terrorists who were snatched to be flown out of country and dropped off. The men would return back to the original country, continuing with their cover activities without anyone realizing what had happened. In a perfect mission, the terrorist simply disappeared into a “black hole,” hence the code name for the vessel. In this case, Knuckles had transferred Crusty, then returned to Tunisia only to be recalled two days later on an alert from Taskforce headquarters. The ship had begun steaming east, getting in range of the Levant coastline when the mission had been scrubbed. Eight hours later, it was back on.
Having spent the majority of his military time inside SEAL Team VI, he was used to the on-again, off-again nature of the work, but this time the mission caused him some concern.
Ordinarily, Taskforce planning worked from the ground up, with Knuckles being told the objective, but left to his own devices to determine how it would be executed. In this case, all planning had been conducted by someone else, and he was about to exit a moving aircraft into the Mediterranean Sea, then swim for two hours for a link-up with another boat.
All the parameters had been provided to him. The grid for the boat, the signals for the beacons, the helicopter’s flight path, and the release point had been handed to him complete. He knew it was because of time sensitivity and the lack of ability to directly communicate with his link-up, but it did nothing to ease his fears. Once in the water, they were on their own. If they moved to the link-up, and nobody was home, they’d still be two hours off the coast of a hostile country.
Pike, you’d better be waiting.
His other concern was Brett, the third man on the team. There was no doubt the guy was handy in a gunfight, and plenty smart, but he’d spent the past twelve years in the Special Activities Division of the CIA’s National Clandestine Service. He hadn’t done any subsurface work since he was in the Marines, a long, long time ago, and they were swimming the Draeger LAR V rebreather.
A closed circuit underwater breathing apparatus, the Draeger recirculated the exhaled gas from the swimmer, and thus no telltale bubbles escaped like an ordinary scuba system. It was perfect for clandestine infiltration, but the gas mixture was also very deadly. Make a mistake in using it, and it would kill quickly.
He patted Brett on the knee. “You sure you’re good on this system? I don’t want to be towing a dead body after thirty minutes.”
Brett smiled, his teeth stark white against his ebony skin.“Yeah. Quit worrying about me. A few different buckles and switches, but it’s basically the same thing I trained with. Besides, I’m just along for the ride.”
The crew chief tapped his shoulder, holding up five fingers.
Knuckles echoed the command, shouting, “Five minutes!”
All three began preparing for the cast off of the helicopter, Brett working the waterproofed equipment bundle to the door while Knuckles and Decoy prepped their diver propulsion vehicles.
Knuckles checked his GPS and was relieved to see the release point he’d programmed approaching. At least that will go correctly. He shut off the GPS and zipped it into a waterproof bag. Hopefully, it would be the last time he looked at it, since it wouldn’t pick up a signal underwater. If he needed a GPS again, it meant the link-up had failed, and they’d had to surface to get a reading on where they were in relation to the shore.
The helicopter slowed and dropped down to the deck of the ocean, so close that Knuckles could see the white foam of the rotor wash in the moonlight. The crew chief gave the two-minute call and tossed his headset onto the floor of the helo. He positioned his mask on his face and placed the Draeger mouthpiece in, opening the dive surface valve to allow the flow of oxygen. He purged the system, then turned to help Brett.
At the one-minute call, he edged to the open door, holding his diver propulsion vehicle in his lap, then assisted Brett with the bundle of equipment. He would be first out, followed by Brett and the bundle, then Decoy with the second DPV.
He was so intent on making sure Brett was stable and ready with the bundle that he missed the thirty-second call. He felt the crew chief slap him on the shoulder and heard, “Go!”
He turned in confusion only to find the crew chief wildly pointing out the door and shouting “Go, go, go!”
Without hesitation, he chucked the DPV out the door and followed suit, before the towline attached to it yanked him out anyway.
He hit the water with a hand on his dive mask and went under, cursing himself for jumping before he was ready. Dumbass crew chief thinks an extra second or two matters?
He broke the surface, followed his towline to the floating DPV and popped a ChemLight, holding it in the air. Only then did he do a threesixty survey of the water, the roar of the helicopter fading, leaving a ringing in his ears and a deep quiet all around.
He saw two other ChemLights and stroked to them. Decoy was already prepping his underwater scooter for the ride, while Brett was slowly treading water, holding on to the neutrally buoyant bundle.
He got an “A-OK” hand signal from both.
He attached his towrope to the plate on the DPV to his front, then attached a separate towrope to Brett’s harness behind him. Decoy did the same, hooking his secondary towrope to the bundle.
He secured his attack board onto the DPV, checked to make sure
the compass and depth gauge functioned, then got a final A-OK hand signal, the constraints of using the Draeger preventing them from removing the mouthpiece to talk. Once in place, the body itself became part of the system, a symbiotic relationship that couldn’t be broken until the dive was complete.
The restrictions of the LAR V rebreather were a trade-off, but worth it. While it allowed them to swim underwater without telltale bubbles, its true value was in the length of time it could stay under. At thirty feet of depth, they could swim for four hours without surfacing, which, if his calculations were correct, would be enough to make it to the coast should the link-up fail. What was waiting for them there would be the new problem.
Knuckles triggered the DPV and dove, reaching twenty-five feet. He lined up his compass, set the pitch of the propeller on two-thirds, and began moving through the water at a rapid clip. The light attached underneath his DPV gave him enough illumination to see about five feet ahead of him, reminding him of the movies from submersibles at the ocean floor. A thin reed of illumination swallowed by infinite blackness. It was disconcerting and claustrophobic, but something he was used to after hundreds of night dives. He simply watched the compass needle, checking off to his left occasionally to make sure Decoy’s ChemLight was still with him.
Finding a boat in the middle of the ocean was literally worse than finding a pinhole in a field of snow. Using just a compass, with the variable currents underwater and the probability of error of the release point, would guarantee failure, but they had a little help inside their DPVs.
Made by Gavin Water Sports, they were a commercial, off-the-shelf item that looked a little like a torpedo, with a long cylinder up front attached to a propeller. Unlike the ones Knuckles had trained with in the Navy, he was connected to the device by a towrope instead of riding it as a passenger. Ordinarily used for cave diving and shipwreck exploration, the Taskforce had modified the DPVs for clandestine infiltration. In the nose of each was a transducer that would pick up the signals from a sonic beacon. Once it made an encrypted handshake, a computer would take over the steering, guiding them directly to the boat. All Knuckles had to do was get within eight hundred meters— the range of the beacon. A whole lot more room for error with the compass, but still easy to screw up. Miss the bubble by fifty meters and they’d never know it.
