The Assassins

by Oliver North

  “Why Tel Aviv?” asked the Commander in Chief. “The Israelis moved their seat of government to Jerusalem years ago.”

  “Because,” Goode responded, “the radical imams, mullahs, and ayatollahs also know about the biblical prophecy that the temple will be rebuilt in Jerusalem. They want to avoid inflicting any damage to the Dome of the Rock or the Al Aqsa Mosque that would offer a pretext for such an event.”

  There was a moment of silence in the room and then the President said, “Have we told the Israelis about this yet?”

  “No, sir,” said Powers. “I wanted to make sure you saw this before we shared it with anyone else. Second, we need to make sure that the British are brought in next—because they have troops on the ground in Iraq and ships out in the Gulf that are vulnerable. But I'm also concerned that the Israelis might just launch a preemptive strike of their own once we tell them about it or show 'em these pictures.”

  “Wouldn't that solve our problem?” said the President.

  For the first time since they had walked into the room, the Secretary of State spoke up. “No, Mr. President,” she said. “It'll make things much worse if the Israelis launch a preemptive strike.”

  “Why, Helen?” challenged the Commander in Chief. “When they took out the Osirik reactor in Iraq back in 1981, everyone screamed at them—but were quietly glad they did it.”

  “That's true, Mr. President,” answered the Secretary of State. “But back then they used aircraft and conventional bombs. This time they'll use Jericho missiles, with nuclear warheads.”

  Lourdes Signals Intelligence Facility

  ________________________________________

  Bejucal, Cuba

  Thursday, 1 November 2007

  1200 Hours Local

  “I am sorry, sir,” said the commander of the Lourdes Signals Intelligence unit, “we cannot reestablish the link. And if we continue to try and make more inquiries, we risk inviting the attention of hostile intelligence services.”

  Gen. Dimitri Komulakov looked at his watch. It had been nearly sixteen hours since his communications with Nikolai Dubzhuko—his deputy in Riyadh—had been cut. None of his attempts at using the Cuba-Murmansk-Moscow-Tehran-Riyadh link for either voice or data transmission were working. He had every one of his communications specialists working on the problem—plus some he had “borrowed” from the regular Signals Intelligence garrison.

  “Has anyone found out what caused us to lose contact?” asked Komulakov.

  “Not yet, General,” said the commander of the Lourdes facility. “We do know that your undersea link between here and Murmansk is still working. And you are still able to route some traffic between Murmansk and Moscow. According to the technicians in Moscow, they can still send and receive tones between Moscow and Tehran on your circuit at a very reduced baud rate. Unfortunately, there is no data exchange whatsoever on the link between Tehran and Riyadh.”

  “What the devil does all that mean, Mikhail Vushneshko?” asked Komulakov impatiently.

  “There is a short circuit—perhaps a damaged electronic switch, maybe a cut in the fiber-optic cable. Or it could mean that the equipment has been corrupted by some computer virus in your system. The problem seems to be between Tehran and Riyadh, but it has affected your whole communications network,” the colonel responded.

  “Well, can it be fixed?” asked the general.

  “Oh yes,” answered Vushneshko, “but first we would have to find where the damage has occurred. And since it appears that this is not in Russia, we would have to make further inquiries with local telecommunications authorities in Tehran and in Riyadh.”

  “That's out of the question, Mikhail,” said Komulakov abruptly. “I do not want the Iranians to know I am here—and there are no ‘authorities’ as you put it—in Riyadh. They are all dead.”

  “Yes, General,” said the colonel, anxious to end this unpleasant exchange. “Is there anything else I can do to help you?”

  Komulakov thought for a moment and then said, “Is there any other way for me to send and receive encrypted voice and data communications between here and Tehran and here and Riyadh without using my emergency satellite system?”

  Vushneshko thought about it for several seconds and then said, “The problem is your encryption system. You have been communicating over a discrete channel that has now been interrupted. We can't risk compromising our national circuits if your system has a virus in it. I can route your communications between here and Murmansk on a backup fiber-optic line. But in Murmansk, they will have to route your signals to Riyadh and Tehran using a commercial telecommunications satellite.”

  “What's wrong with that?” asked Komulakov, not fully comprehending all that the younger intelligence officer was saying.

  “Well,” replied the colonel, “if an unfriendly intelligence service is paying attention, they can intercept the satellite transmissions between Murmansk and Riyadh and Murmansk and Tehran.”

  “But it will all be encrypted, and it will appear to them as though these are calls between Murmansk and parties in Riyadh and Tehran,” said Komulakov.

  “That is true, General,” said Vushneshko. “But if they have enough time, the Americans and the British have the means of breaking the encryption. That is why the direct fiber-optic connection was so desirable. They wouldn't even know how to look for it.”

  “How long would it take them to break the encryption systems that my people are using here and in Riyadh and Tehran?”

  Vushneshko pondered the question for a moment then said, “With the software you are using, they might be able to ‘break’ it in a week or two with their super-computers.”

  “Two weeks?” said Komulakov, smiling. “That's all I need. Can you get all of this set up?”

  “Yes,” said the colonel, pleased that he was being helpful. “I will need the codec information for the computers in Riyadh and Tehran, the telephone numbers for their secure instruments, and of course an account number for billing the commercial satellite service. It should only take a few hours—perhaps overnight.”

  “I shall have all of that information brought to your office immediately,” said Komulakov. “Is that all?”

  “Just one reminder,” said Vushneshko. “Riyadh and Tehran will have to rely completely on satellite communications. As soon as they come up on this new circuit, they must assume that the Americans will very quickly be aware of their locations—even though it may take them some time to figure out what is being said.”

  “I understand, Vushneshko,” said Komulakov, smiling again, “but even if the Americans are listening in, they will not know that I am here in Cuba, correct?”

  “That is correct, Comrade General, but they will probably also know you are not in Murmansk. No one in their right mind spends the winter up there.”

  CJR Warehouse

  ________________________________________

  867 Avenida Maiquetia, Caracas, Venezuela

  Thursday, 1 November 2007

  2100 Hours Local

  “Well I'm impressed,” said Sgt. Maj. Amos Skillings as Brig. Gen. Peter Newman walked him around the warehouse that was now becoming crowded with equipment and personnel.

  “I'm impressed too,” said Newman, pointing to the “ski boot” on Skillings's left leg. “Are you sure that you're not doing more damage than good with that so-called walking cast?”

  “No, sir,” Doc said it might be uncomfortable for a few days, but I haven't had any swelling; and other than the need to take it off every time I go through airport security, it really isn't that much of a hassle.”

  The two men made their way back to the office that served as their command post. Newman gestured toward one of the folding chairs, saying, “I'm glad you arrived when you did. I was about to leave for my hotel for the night. Tell me about your trip down here.”

  Skillings, dressed in jeans and a green cotton polo shirt, took a long drink from the bottle of water he had been carrying and said, “Mrs. Newman dropped
me at the Key West Naval Air Station ‘pax’ terminal at 1930, and Maj. Ed Bowes was already there with a fellow from Langley They arranged for a large conference room upstairs, and over the next eight hours or so we ‘processed’ thirty other SEALs, Marine Force Recon, and ‘D-Boys’ with new passports and all the appropriate stamps, pocket litter, and plane tickets.”

  “How did they get all that stuff done so fast?” asked Newman.

  “The guy from Langley said he worked for Mr. Goode. I've never seen anything like it,” answered Skillings. “It would have made a good counterfeiter proud. As soon as everyone had their paperwork in order, we split up into three groups and boarded two Navy C-9s and a DEA Gulfstream. One of the C-9s dropped off at Miami, Atlanta, Newark, and Chicago. The second one did drops at Houston, Dallas/Fort Worth, Phoenix, and Los Angeles.”

  “How did you get here so quickly? There are only a dozen or so who have made it in,” said Newman.

  “The plan called for us all to take different flights into Caracas. I rode the Gulfstream straight to the DEA base in Panama and took a quick van ride to the commercial side of the field where I caught an Avianca flight in here an hour later. When I got to the Caracas airport, I just went to the valet car service sign and told the guy in the white number seven van that I worked for Mr. Oldham—and here I am.”

  “You catch any heat on the way?”

  “No, sir,” said Skillings with a smile. “You see, my passport says that I am from Grenada and serving as an observer for the Human Rights Commission of the OAS.”

  Newman chuckled and said, “Well, Mr. Human Rights Observer, do you have any questions about the rather complicated missions we have here?”

  “Not yet, sir. I want to get to know the men a little bit better as they make it in here tonight. I met most of them while we were doing the processing back at Key West, but it's tough to get a feel for what a guy is really like in that kind of controlled chaos. I also want Sergeant First Class Nievos to explain that detection and surveillance equipment he has out there, and I'd like to spend some time talking to Chief Suazo and the guys he brought in for taking out that Mubassa character. Let me have until tomorrow morning, and I'll have a lot of questions.”

  “OK,” said Newman, rising to leave. “I'll be back here shortly after 0900. I have a breakfast meeting about oil exploration at the hotel with our host, ‘Eduardo’ Roca. It was one of his sons who picked you up at the airport. Use the D-DACT for any messages. I'm pretty sure all the hotel phone lines are tapped.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” replied the sergeant major who then snapped his fingers and said, “Messages... hold one, sir.” Reaching into his duffel bag, Skillings pulled out an envelope and handed it to Newman, adding, “This is from James. He asked me to give it to you. I told him not to write your name on it—that's why the envelope is blank.”

  As the sergeant major busied himself with his gear, Newman opened the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of paper with James's boyish attempt at good penmanship:

  Dear Dad,

  You're my hero. I miss you. So does Mom and Lizzie.

  Hope to see you soon.

  Love, James

  RUNNING OUT

  OF TIME

  ___________________________________________________

  ___________________________________________________

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Lourdes Signals Intelligence Facility

  ________________________________________

  Bejucal, Cuba

  Friday, 02 November 2007

  0745 Hours Local

  Dimitri Komulakov learned about the bomb in the Times Square Station of the New York subway system the same way the rest of America did—from FOX News. For more than forty hours, ever since his communications had suddenly gone down, he had been watching the American cable news channels for any word about what was happening in the Middle East—and anything that might give him a clue as to what his deputy, Col. Nikolai Dubzhuko, was doing in Riyadh. All that Komulakov knew, thanks to the ingenuity of Col. Mikhail Vushneshko, the commanding officer of the Russian Signals Intelligence garrison at Lourdes, was that Dubzhuko was still alive. Vushneshko had confirmed that—by having an intelligence officer at the Russian embassy in Tehran make a brief call to Dubzhuko's commercial satellite phone, saying only, “We are trying to reestablish communications.”

  For the better part of two days Komulakov had been watching news broadcasts and wire service reports focused on events in the United States—the flight from American cities, the disruption and looting, food and fuel shortages, and reports of “leaks” from Congressional sources about how the American President was “covering up” the severity of the terrorist threat. At one point, while Vushneshko had been working on reestablishing the secure communications link with Riyadh, Komulakov had told him, “It's a good thing the Americans have a Congress to leak information, otherwise we wouldn't know anything about what is going on.”

  But now, with a report of a bomb in New York City, the retired KGB general was frantic to find out how this event had occurred. Bombing the New York transit system had not been on his list of “planned events.” He watched the television only long enough to determine that the bomb had been a small conventional device before rushing to the command center, screaming for Vushneshko. “I have waited long enough! You must find some way for me to communicate secure with Riyadh,” Komulakov demanded.

  To avoid a scene in the presence of others, Vushneshko escorted the general into an adjoining room filled to the ceiling with racks of electronic equipment. Two technicians wearing headphones were there, working with a maze of colored wires.

  “Sir, we have been working nonstop ever since your communications link went down,” Vushneshko replied patiently. “We have just established a connection, but it is a very fragile link, and it takes much longer for the signal to get from here to Riyadh and back than it did before. The processors must encrypt the signal here, carry your voice or data from here on an undersea fiber-optic cable to the hub at Murmansk, send it up to a commercial satellite, then back down from the satellite and through the decryption at the other end. There is almost a four-second delay.”

  Komulakov didn't even hesitate. “That will have to do. Connect me immediately to Dubzhuko in Riyadh.”

  “By voice or data?” asked the communications intelligence officer.

  “Voice,” replied the general. “I shall take the call at my desk in the command center.”

  Less than a minute later, Komulakov finally heard Dubzhuko's familiar Ukrainian accent for the first time since Wednesday.

  “Nikolai, can you hear me?” the general shouted into the phone.

  At this, Colonel Vushneshko leaned over Komulakov's shoulder and said quietly, “General, it is not necessary to raise your voice. The extra volume simply distorts the signal even more."

  Komulakov nodded and said, “Yes, thank you, Mikhail Vushneshko, I understand,” although he really didn't. Then, at a slightly reduced timbre he said again into the phone, “Nikolai, are you there?”

  “Yes, I hear you,” replied the garbled voice from Riyadh, replying to Komulakov's first question asked five seconds earlier.

  “Ahh, good,” said Komulakov, reassured that his exquisitely planned operation was no longer completely unraveling.

  “Nikolai, what is this about a bomb going off in the New York subway system?”

  There was a long pause before Dubzhuko's voice came through the warble and electronic static on the line: “What bomb in the New York subway?”

  “The American news organs are carrying the story,” Komulakov said, his voice rising again. “They are saying that a group calling itself the ‘Islamic Brotherhood in America’ did it."

  “I know nothing about it,”

  “Very well, Nikolai,” said Komulakov. “Give me a status report. Where are our special weapons?” he demanded.

  “They are in Caracas, at the airport, as our ‘client’ previously arranged,” came the rep
ly several seconds later.

  “Did you instruct our people to delay the installation?”

  “Yes," Dubzhuko answered. “I talked personally to Major Argozvek, and he will not start putting the weapons in the captured Saudi planes and ships until tomorrow. But that does not make our employer happy. I also told Argozvek to take care of the Muba—”

  “Nikolai,” interrupted Komulakov impatiently, “just give me the information I need. How many of the ‘carrier’ vessels and planes have arrived in Caracas?”

  “Five of the aircraft are there already. Only three of the ships have made it in, however."

  “Where are the rest of them?”

  There was a longer than normal delay as Dubzhuko checked his own data. He then replied: “We have a 737 in the Cape Verde Islands, a Gulfstream in Rio de Janeiro, and an Airbus in Dakar, Senegal. One of the boats is in Aruba, and there is another at the Venezuelan port at Maracaibo."

  “Where are the rest of the ships and aircraft?" asked Komulakov.

  “I do not know," responded Dubzhuko. “I think we have to assume that they have been captured or sunk by the Americans and their allies. As you told me before we lost communications, they appear to be aware of what's going on and had already—"

  “Please, Nikolai," interrupted Komulakov again, “I do not need to be reminded. I want you to send me the list of those whom we have assigned to each ship and aircraft, their communication identifiers, and GPS coordinates in your next report. Have you heard from our employer?"

  “Yes!" the colonel in Riyadh responded with agitation. “I tried to tell you, Ali Yunesi is not happy about the delay in installing the weapons. When we lost communications, he sent two dozen of his people here—to Riyadh—to find out why he had not been receiving reports. They arrived this morning and have set up in a looted office building across the street. They have their own communications equipment."

  Komulakov's anxiety shot up once again. “Are they using radios?"