The Assassins

by Oliver North

  Newman had taken this assignment on the advice of Gen. George Grisham when his mentor had been named as the first Marine Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff in June. Grisham had said, “Pete, if you are going to pick up your next star—and you deserve it—you need a ‘joint tour’ here in Washington. Besides, if I'm going to be the JCS Chairman, I want somebody over at DHS watching my back.”

  But since June, Newman hadn't been watching any backs except those of the more than capable watch officers in the DHS Operations Center. There was little for the Marine Brigadier General to lead or even manage. His deputy, Matt Roderick, capably handled almost all day-to-day problems. This assignment was a definite letdown for Newman. The one good thing that it gave him, however, was what he called his “family time.”

  For the first time in his military career—which began when he graduated from the Naval Academy in 1978—Newman now had reasonable hours. And for a change, neither he nor his family was in any kind of danger—other than the bustling traffic that seemed to race up and down Foxhall Road.

  Thanks to General Grisham—and a powerful member of the House Armed Services Committee—Newman's career had been effectively rehabilitated from what he and Rachel privately called the “1998 debacle in the desert.” From March of that year until February 2001, he had served at MacDill AFB on Grisham's Operations and Planning staff at CENTCOM. That month, when the new president picked Grisham as the next Marine Commandant, Newman went to Washington with him as staff secretary.

  Though the hours were long, Newman was working at the side of the man to whom he owed his life, his marriage, and his faith. Grisham had also made a personal mission out of seeing to it that Newman's controversial past did not hinder his future. While the general never acknowledged it, Newman was convinced that his promotion from lieutenant colonel to colonel in July 2000 was the direct result of Grisham's intervention.

  And he also suspected that it was General Grisham who had orchestrated the invitation to the Oval Office on 24 March 2001, where, with his wife and two children watching, the new President awarded Col. Peter J. Newman, USMC, a second Navy Cross and a second Purple Heart for the highly sensitive action in Iraq three years before.

  It was a deeply emotional moment for the entire Newman family. Even though James was barely six and little Elizabeth Anne was just two, they both seemed to grasp the gravity of the moment as the President's military aide read the classified citation and their mother's eyes welled up with tears. Afterward, when Newman tried to thank Grisham, the general simply said, “Well, I guess that this should remove any doubt about your three and a half years of ‘detached duty’ being a blot on your military record.”

  The general's personal involvement in Newman's military career didn't stop there. As Commandant of the Marine Corps, Grisham personally selected the commanders of all his field units. In January 2003, with war looming in Iraq, he picked Newman to command the Third Marine Regiment—which had already deployed to Kuwait. Newman had packed his “fly-away kit” and departed for his new command with less than forty-eight hours' notice. He left Rachel and their two children in their Foxhall Road townhouse to fend for themselves once again, a condition all too familiar to most military families.

  Newman's assignment as the commanding officer of Regimental Combat Team 3 wasn't really a matter of favoritism on the part of the Commandant. Making him the CO of RCT 3 took advantage of all the planning Newman had done while on the CENTCOM staff. It also put him in the van of the First Marine Expeditionary Force (I-MEF) attack up the Tigris River from Kuwait to Baghdad, over terrain that he'd come to know in 1995 during the UN's ill-fated assassination attempt against Saddam, and his 1998 involvement in the highly classified joint U.S.-Israeli raid into Iraq.

  Newman had commanded RCT-3 through the swift battle to depose Saddam's brutal regime and the subsequent effort to establish an interim government in Baghdad. In January of '04 he had been handpicked by the Commanding General of the 1st Marine Division to become Division Chief of Staff. And in June that year, during his eighteenth month “in theater,” Newman was selected for Brigadier General.

  Though most of his contemporaries had long since rotated home, Newman accepted the post of Assistant Division Commander of the 1st Marine Division and stayed in Iraq. Aside from a brief two-week leave to fly home in September of '04, he remained with the 1st Mar Div HQ at Ramadi, Iraq—in the heart of the so-called “Sunni triangle” about forty-five miles west of Baghdad.

  Finally, following the Iraqi elections in 2005, and after two long years in the field, Newman returned to the U.S. to take up a new assignment in the office of the Deputy Chief of Staff for Air-Ground Operations and Plans at the Marine headquarters.

  After a month of leave with Rachel, James, and Elizabeth Anne, Newman had literally jumped into his new job. To almost anyone else, an assignment at HQMC would be a welcome respite for an officer coming from two years of duty overseas in a combat zone. But within days after reporting to his new job, Newman was on the road again.

  Between March of '05 and June of '07, Newman had thrown himself into the task of ensuring that Marine units being rotated to Iraq and Afghanistan were fully trained, equipped, and ready. In sixteen months he made a dozen trips to the two war-torn countries, as well as countless other inspection visits to Marine battalions and squadrons in the Carolinas, California, and Japan.

  Each time her husband departed for Southwest Asia, Rachel would put on a brave face, kiss him good-bye at the front door, and hold her tears until after the staff car had pulled out of their driveway headed for Andrews Air Force Base. And though Peter called and e-mailed frequently while away from home, there were many nights when young James and “Little Lizzie”—as Newman called his daughter—often heard their mother crying softly in her bedroom.

  Newman had been on a trip to Iraq in June of 2007 when the President chose General Grisham to become the first Marine Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Peter and Rachel had been invited to a White House reception for the new chairman the day he was confirmed by the Senate. It was the kind of event Rachel usually declined when her husband was away; however, George Grisham and his wife Barbara weren't just part of the Washington military hierarchy—they were friends.

  Rachel decided to go, and it was there, in the midst of the crush of congressmen, senators, well-wishers, lobbyists, and sycophants in the East Room of the White House that General Grisham had spotted her.

  “It's great to see you, Rachel,” Grisham said warmly. “I guess one of my last acts as Commandant was to send Peter on another trip to Iraq. I'm sorry he isn't here with you.”

  “So am I,” Rachel replied, tears suddenly welling up in her eyes.

  Grisham immediately put his arm around her shoulder and turned her away from the crowd, toward a window facing south toward the Ellipse, asking, “Rachel, is everything all right?”

  “Oh, I'm so sorry,” she said, grabbing a handkerchief from her purse. “This isn't like me. It's such a wonderful day for you and Barbara, and here I am crying like a teenager,” she said, biting her lower lip.

  “Tell me what's on your mind, Rachel. You and Pete mean too much to us to have you unhappy. How can I help?” the senior military officer of the U.S. Armed Forces asked her.

  Rachel took a deep breath and plunged in. “I know I shouldn't be worried about Peter. As you know better than almost anyone else, he and I have been through an awful lot over the past dozen years. But now, even with a stateside assignment, Peter's never home. He'd be upset if he knew I was telling you this, but I know Peter had some very close calls when he commanded the regiment in Iraq—and that he's had others—like the time just before he rotated home when his helicopter went down outside Ramadi while he was Assistant Division Commander.”

  The general looked at this emotionally vulnerable woman whom he loved as if she were his own daughter. “Pete knows the ropes. He can take care of himself,” he said, trying to be reassuring.

  “I know. But I can't he
lp but wonder how many other ‘close calls’ he's had that he never tells me about.”

  General Grisham sighed, feeling the depth of her frustration and concern.

  Rachel said, “We need more time together—but there isn't any and meanwhile young James and little Elizabeth are growing up without him.” She finally stopped talking and noticed that her second-favorite general was staring out the window toward the Washington Monument.

  After a moment Grisham spoke, as much to himself as to her. “Peter is an exceptional officer, but I've asked too much of you both. The Corps always asks a lot of those who have a lot to give. But I also know it hasn't been fair. You have both been asked to give a lot.”

  Then looking directly into Rachel's eyes, he continued, “I still have a little pull in the Marine Corps. I'm going to see to it that when Pete returns from this trip to Iraq he's reassigned to a job where he'll have no reason not to be home. We have an opening at the Department of Homeland Security, right up the road from your home on Foxhall Road.”

  “Oh General, I'd love that,” said Rachel. “But if Pete finds out that I've caused him to be sent to some dead-end job, he'll be miserable.”

  “Don't you worry about that,” Grisham replied, now smiling once again. “It's not a dead-end job—it's very important—he'll be the senior military officer at DHS. Pete needs a ‘joint’ assignment like that if he's going to pick up a second star. And you and the children will get to see him more. This will be good for both of you.”

  The Oval Office

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  The White House, Washington, DC

  Sunday, 14 October 2007

  1535 Hours Local

  While the White House Communications Agency techs quietly and competently completed the hookups for the lights, cameras, and teleprompter, for what they called a “national feed,” the most powerful man in the world was already seated behind his desk, reviewing the statement he would make to the nation and the world in less than half an hour. It was only four pages long, double-spaced in 15-point type. He had already been through it twice, inserting a word here, deleting a phrase there.

  Standing beside him was Miles Johnson, his chief speechwriter. Johnson duplicated each alteration in the text on his laptop computer on the desk by the Chief Executive's left arm. As he inserted each change, a wireless encrypted data link automatically updated the version in the teleprompter. Once “the boss” was satisfied, it would take less than a minute to produce a “final smooth” on the printer just outside the Oval Office door in the Staff Secretary's office. This paper copy would be in front of the President when the cameras went “live” just in case there was a glitch in the teleprompter.

  The President looked up from the text and looked around the room. Spotting his National Security Advisor near the fireplace talking quietly with Defense Secretary Powers, he said, “Jeb, I'm still concerned about this wording here.” Looking down he read: “‘I have tried to reach the Crown Prince of Saudi Arabia to extend my personal concerns and offer our condolences for the loss of life in the country.’ Doesn't that beg the question as to why I haven't been able to reach him?”

  “Yes, sir, but I think we have to say something to reassure the royal family.”

  “Well, what's the problem?” asked the Commander in Chief, his frustration showing. “Why can't we contact anyone over there? It's been almost twelve hours since the attack! I thought you said that our comms were back on-line.”

  “Sir,” the National Security Advisor responded, “that's true, but WHCA has been trying to get your call through since before the NSC meeting this morning. It's the Saudis who are not responding. State says the Saudi Foreign Ministry won't tell us anything and won't put anyone above some desk officer on the phone. The Agency can't find anyone to talk to in Riyadh because the main telephone exchange is apparently shut down. Our ambassador reports that the Saudi National Guard still has our embassy surrounded and refuses to let any of our people out of the compound on the premise that it's not safe for ‘Westerners’ to be on the streets. Prince Bushir, their ambassador, is out of Washington and incommunicado, and their DCM isn't taking calls. I don't know what else we can say except the truth—that you've been unable to reach anyone there.”

  The President grimaced, looked at his Defense Secretary, and said, “Dan, we're about to interrupt the NFL football schedule on national television and I'm going to have my head handed to me by the ‘Armchair Admirals,’ ‘Barroom Brigadiers,’ and the ‘Sound-bite Special Forces.’ Every talking head in the country is going to have their own spin on why I can't reach the Crown Prince. I'd like to tell my own version. Got any ideas?”

  Powers was about to reply when there was an abrupt double knock on the door that leads from the Oval Office to the hallway outside the Roosevelt Room. It was such an extraordinary breach of protocol that no one said anything. Jeb Stuart walked over to the heavy door, opened it, and stared into the ashen face of the duty military aide, an Air Force major. “Yes?” said the National Security Advisor.

  “Sir,” said the aide, “I have an emergency call from the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs for the Secretary of Defense. It came through on the ‘NCA Red Phone.’”

  The major was holding in his hand what appeared to be an ordinary cell phone but was actually a highly sophisticated, encrypted satellite-cellular communications device. One of these phones was always in the immediate vicinity of every officer in the National Command Authority “nuclear chain of command.” The aides to the President, Vice President, SecDef, and each of the commanders of America's nuclear forces always had one with them. So did the Chairman and Vice Chairman of the JCS, though technically they were not in the direct NCA “chain.” The phones, and the system to support them, had been created by the Defense Communications Agency with one purpose: to alert key decision makers that a weapon-of-mass-destruction attack—nuclear, biological, or chemical—had been launched against the United States.

  Thinking of that, seventy-year-old Dan Powers practically jumped over the wires and cables that the WHCA TV crew had sprawled over the floor of the Oval Office as though he were still the college athlete he had been fifty years earlier. Taking the phone from his aide's outstretched hand, he said, “Thank you, Charles,” and put the phone to his ear. “Powers here,” he said.

  For twenty seconds, he listened and then said, “Hold on, George, I want the President to hear this directly. I'm in the Oval Office with him right now. Are you in the NMCC?…OK…good. I'll ask the President to call you there immediately.”

  The SecDef pressed the button labeled END CALL on the phone, handed it back to his aide, and said, “Mr. President, we have some very disturbing news from the JCS Chairman that may change the tenor of your remarks completely. If I may, sir, I think we need to clear the office so that you, Jeb, and I can hear this directly from General Grisham.”

  The four WHCA technicians were already moving to the door on the opposite side of the fireplace before the National Security Advisor had to hasten them out of the room. As the door closed, leaving Powers and Stuart alone with the Commander in Chief, he pressed a button on the secure phone labeled NMCC.

  Immediately, a slightly garbled voice came over the speaker: “This is General Grisham, sir.”

  “What do we have, General?” asked the President, glancing at his watch. It was 3:45. In fifteen minutes he was supposed to deliver a reassuring address to the nation.

  Grisham's voice came back through the fiber-optic link: “Sir, five minutes ago the NCOIC of the Marine Security Guard Detachment in Riyadh called in on an open line from the Marine House, which is about a block from our embassy. He reports that an hour ago, Sheikh Abdullah al-Aziz, the cousin of the Saudi Interior Minister, rushed into the detachment's billet, badly wounded and covered in blood. Shortly thereafter, twenty-five to thirty well-armed militants attacked the Marine House. The Marines have beaten off two assaults and are holding their own, hoping they don't run out of ammo before dawn
.”

  “Any of our boys casualties?” asked the President.

  “One Marine KIA, three wounded,” answered Grisham.

  “How many Marines are in the house?” asked the President.

  “Seven still alive.”

  “How about this Saudi—is he likely to make it?”

  “No, sir, he died,” answered Grisham. “But before the Saudi expired, he was very insistent that the Marines get word to you that his entire family has been killed. His words were, ‘There is no one left.’”

  “That's a terrible shame,” said the President, “but at this point, I'm more concerned about my Marines.”

  “Yes, sir, so am I,” interjected the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “But please understand, Mr. President, Sheikh al-Aziz wasn't just talking about his wives and children. He was talking about the royal family—the House of Saud. The entire royal family of Saudi Arabia seems to have been assassinated.”

  KNOW

  YOUR ENEMY

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  CHAPTER TWO

  Lourdes Signals Intelligence Facility