by Harold
O’Connor regarded the overweight executive with a perceptible, disapproving frown. “Well, the usual reason, Marshal. Deniability. As you say, the operation will almost certainly take place at sea, and likely in international waters. The United States Government does not condone piracy, let alone participate in such things.”
Wilmont nodded vigorously. “Yeah, yeah. I understand that. But we just don’t have the assets—the gear—for something like this. And we can’t get it fast enough to meet the schedule.”
“Oh, I think you can trust me on that score. You’ll have maximum support across the board: intelligence, technical, whatever you need. If there’s ever an audit of the operation—extremely unlikely, by the way—the investigators will find that all the equipment was declared surplus months before SSI ever saw it.”
Derringer pulled an envelope from his Brooks Brothers suit coat. “Ryan, I brought a list of equipment needs and some operational concerns. This is for our liaison officer—whoever that might be.”
O’Connor scooped up the paper but did not bother looking at it. “Right. I’ll give it to the case officer and he’ll get back to you today. He’s arranging logistics right now. But you have the keys to the kingdom on this one, Admiral. Speed boats, a couple of leased ships, communications, even unmarked helicopters if you need them.”
The SSI men looked at each other. Without a word, they rose in unison. “Right,” Derringer said. “We’ll get going. Ah, do we communicate with you or with the case officer from now on?”
O’Connor stood behind his desk. “Preferably through Grover Hinds, but if you need me, call anytime, day or night.” He paused for emphasis. “This is off the record, of course, but I’m in constant contact with the secretary If you need any logjams broken, she’ll see to it personally.”
Wilmont raised his eyebrows. “Well, that’s about as much as we could ever want. Thanks, Ryan.”
“Just get the job done, gentlemen. There’s too much riding on this one.”
* * * *
51
MISRATAH, LIBYA
Paul Deladier sipped his tea and regarded Marcel Hurtubise across the outdoor table. Looking around the square, Deladier could not help comparing the elegant surroundings to his truck-bound existence over the past three days.
“I never knew there were such places in Libya,” he declared. “This is wonderful! Modern facilities, an oasis, a view of the ocean. It’s like a Hollywood movie set.”
Hurtubise hefted his own cup. “Enjoy it while you can, mon ami. We will not be here long.”
Deladier cocked his head. “Oh? I thought our work was finished when we delivered the shipment.”
“Well, that depends.” Marcel squinted against the glare—he seldom wore sunglasses—and laid down his cup. He would have enjoyed a good Mosel at the moment, but Libyan sensibilities had to be respected. For a Mediterranean seaport town, the local regulations seemed onerous. Female tourists had to wear long skirts, and bare arms were prohibited.
“What I mean, Paul, is that I may not be here long. The client wants extra security, so I have decided to go with the product, and the ship will leave in a few days. If you would like to come . . .”
Deladier sat back, pondering a response.
“What is it?” Marcel asked.
“Well, it’s just that I . . . had not expected to do more. After all, we barely got out of Chad in time.” He tugged at his new shirt. “I don’t even have a suitcase for travel!” He laughed aloud, hoping that it did not sound forced. But driving a semi truck and trailer twelve hundred kilometers across the Sahara had not been an experience he cared to repeat.
Hurtubise looked at his colleague and felt a queasy twinge. Something is not quite right. Be careful—take your time. He made a point of swiveling his head, as if enjoying the view. Certainly Misratah had something to offer: the seventh-century caravan stop had evolved into a modern, comfortable city. The steel and textile industries had brought wealth to the place the Romans called Thubactis. Tree-lined avenues met ancient, narrow streets where Turkish architecture mixed with European. Yes, a young man might enjoy himself in such a place—for a while. “You are right, Paul. I have seen worse places. And so have you!”
Before Hurtubise could continue, Deladier asked, “When did you decide to take the ship? We didn’t discuss that before.”
“Just yesterday. I meant to tell you, but you were out most of the day.” He forced a knowing grin. “Did you find some agreeable company in this Great Socialist People’s Libyan Arab Republic?”
Deladier saw a chance and took it. “Actually, I met two agreeable ladies. Italian sisters. We did not discuss politics, but maybe tonight. Their ship sails tomorrow.”
Hurtubise nodded his close-cropped head. “Well then, after you kiss them good-bye, maybe you’ll consider an ocean voyage yourself. I’m going to need some good men for security.”
“Mmmm. Does it pay a bonus?”
“Yes, half in advance, the rest on arrival.”
Deladier leaned close enough to whisper. “Arrive where?”
Marcel arched an eyebrow. “You know where.”
* * * *
52
SSI OFFICES
It was a rare event: a full-scale meeting of SSI’s operations staff. As officer in charge of all the firm’s fieldwork, Sandra Carmichael chaired the meeting with Frank Leopole beside her.
Carmichael stood to emphasize the importance of the event. “We will come to order.” She modulated her voice with West Point precision, emphasizing every word.
“The purpose of this meeting is to make some important decisions, rapidly.” She reached for the console on the table and turned down the lights in the room. With deft motions she brought the PowerPoint display onto the screen.
“All right. We’re operating on partial information that gets older by the hour, but since we have to start somewhere, we’ll start here.” She traced her laser pointer along the Libyan coast. “We have reason to believe that the yellow cake that was taken from Chad will be sent by sea to Iran.”
Sandra Carmichael could be unusually attractive when she wanted— but Lieutenant Colonel Carmichael, U.S. Army (Retired), kept a brisk, almost brusque demeanor. Those who knew her recognized the signs and paid strict attention.
“Since State and DoD have given us approval to pursue the product, we’re laying contingency plans. Libya is obviously off-limits— there’s just no way we can operate there. But that opens a couple of options. I’ve asked Frank to examine them for us since our foreign ops department is most involved.”
Leopole rose to his feet. “Okay let’s look at the geography.” He returned to the map of Africa. “The quickest route obviously is through the Suez Canal down the Red Sea and around Oman via the Arabian Sea, then into the Persian Gulf. Call it three thousand miles or so. But look at the choke points.” He ticked them off: “Suez, the entrance to the Gulf, and finally the Strait of Hormuz. The smugglers can read a map: they know that they could be intercepted anywhere along that route.
“Now, look at the other way Yes, it’s about four times longer to sail around the whole damn continent, but once past Gibraltar it’s wide open spaces with an enormous amount of room for maneuver. Until they hit the Oman coast, they’re practically home free. And even then, they don’t have to go all the way to Bandar Abbas. There’s two smaller ports on the Makran coast.” He traced the southern shore of Iran, in Baluchistan.
“Sounds like you’re betting on the longer route,” Wilmont said.
Leopole shook his head. “No, sir. We can’t afford to put all our eggs in either basket. We’re going to need two teams and hope that nothing goes wrong with either one. But my gut tells me the cake will take a slow boat to Iran. After all, there’s no big rush. Even if it takes six weeks, the Iranians have time to get ready.”
Derringer was scanning the map like a chess master examining the board, anticipating his next moves. “Where do we base our people to intercept either route?”
>
“Sir, I’m thinking Cairo for the Med with Morocco as an alternate. Down in the Gulf, probably Oman, assuming that can be arranged. Our liaison at State seems to think it’ll be no biggie.”
“Why not keep them at sea aboard the leased ships? They’d be more flexible that way, and a lot less likely to be spotted.”
Leopole knew where Derringer was coming from. The admiral’s experience included pre-positioning ships at Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean. “That’s certainly a possibility, sir. We’ll examine that as an option.” He looked at Carmichael, who took over again. The usual cheerleader enthusiasm was absent from her voice.
“Gentlemen, this mission will succeed or fail largely on the basis of intelligence. We have Dave Dare working on it already. Frankly, I have more confidence in him and his mysterious sources than I do State and DoD and CIA and NSA and the rest of the alphabet. But we’re establishing a cell within the working group to coordinate all information and provide it directly to our teams. There will be an absolute minimum of middle-level filter. If our teams want raw data, they’ll get raw data and draw their own conclusions.”
Joe Wolf, in charge of SSI domestic operations, sat in the back of the room. Without a direct hand in the operation, he was present as an observer but he had a thought. “Sandy, it seems that any Iranian nuke program is aimed at Israel sooner or later. What about their sources?”
Carmichael rolled her big blue eyes. “Joe, I think most of us who have ever worked with the Israelis have enormous respect for them, but we don’t trust them beyond arm’s reach. It’s a one-way street: we give them satellite imagery and all kinds of intel, not to mention a whole lot of money, and we don’t get much back. They let us know what they want us to know if it suits them. There are always hidden agendas with any intelligence organization, but that goes double for Israel.
“Now, in answer to your question: yes, we’ll gladly accept any information. But it’ll probably come via State, and that’s another filter that could just get in the way. So you see why we’re relying on our own sources as much as possible.”
“What about Alex Cohen? Isn’t he dialed in?”
Carmichael looked at Leopole. They exchanged knowing glances before the former Marine stood again. “Alex is a valuable asset. After all, he has dual citizenship and has served in the Israeli Army. I can say that he’s been working on this situation in the Middle East as well as Africa, and he’ll probably be on one of the teams. Other than that. . . we’ll see what develops.”
Derringer seldom got involved in operational details but SSI was planning for a rare naval operation and the salt water was stirring inside him. “We need SEAL expertise for this job.”
“Yes, and we’ve got it,” Leopole replied. “I expect that Vic Pope will lead the first team and Jeff Malten the second.”
“Are they inbound?”
“Ah, Admiral. I talked to Jeff today. He should be here tomorrow. We’re still trying to contact Vic. It’s awfully short notice.”
Derringer nodded slowly. “Very well. But who else? We’ll certainly need more than two men from the teams.”
Leopole raised a hand toward Matthew Finch. “Personnel is Matt’s domain.”
Finch raised partway from his seat. “Sir, we have three other SEALs in the files. I’ve talked to Dave La Rue and he’s interested. The other two are out of touch but my assistant is concentrating on getting hold of them today.”
Derringer shifted in his padded chair and looked at Wilmont. “Marsh, I’ve said for months now that we need more SEALs or Force Recon. There may not be enough time to teach some of our snake eaters how to debark from a Zodiac or take down a ship at sea.”
The chief operating officer cleared his throat. It was rare for Derringer to raise business matters in an operations meeting. “No argument, Mike. But this is the first maritime op we’ve had in, what? Must be a couple of years.”
Derringer rubbed his chin, staring at the map on the wall. “The thing that worries me, assuming we find the yellow cake, is leadership. Basically, it’s down to two men, and while I’m sure Malten’s a good man, he has no command experience. That means if we can’t get Pope, we’re in deep trouble.” He looked up at Wilmont again. “We need more depth in the organization.”
The COO gave an ironic grin. “All it takes is money. Think the board will kick loose some discretionary funds?”
“I’ll damn well find out.” Derringer looked back to Leopole. “Frank, is there any way we could tap some Brits on short notice?”
The foreign ops director looked surprised. “You mean former Special Boat Service?”
“Yes, Royal Marine Commandos.”
Leopole scratched his crew-cut head. “That’s a good idea, Admiral. I’ll huddle with Jeff right after this meeting and see what turns up.”
“Very well,” Derringer replied. “Let’s not waste any time, people. The clock is running.”
* * * *
53
SSI OFFICES
Sandy Carmichael poked her blond head into Leopole’s cubicle. “Like some coffee, Frank?” She winked at him.
As Leopole liked to say, he was smarter than the average Marine. He took the hint and said, “Sure, I’d love some.”
“I have a special blend in my office.” She walked down the hall, waited for her colleague, and closed the door behind him. When she reached for the coffeepot, Leopole raised a hand. “No thanks. I changed my mind.” He grinned.
Carmichael leaned on her desk. “Frank, according to the admiral, State says that we have the point on this job, and we probably do. But I just don’t believe that we’re the only team. I mean, if I were running a job this important, I sure wouldn’t rely on one shot. I’d have at least one more team on tap, maybe two. That means another PMC, which I doubt, or active-duty guys.”
“SEALs,” he replied.
“You betcha.” The south was back in her mouth.
“Well, I agree with you, Sandy. But I don’t see any point in stewing about it. After all, if we miss the boat—so to speak—we’ll be irrelevant. At that point I have to believe that somebody will move in.”
“But in any case we’re short of maritime operators. So tell me about Pope. I only met him once or twice and I’ve never dealt with him since I took the operations job.”
Leopold inhaled, thought a moment, and began. “Single, never married far as I know. Late thirties. Apparently he considered becoming a priest back home in Jacksonville but he went for the SEALs instead.”
Carmichael smacked her forehead. “Pope! I can just imagine. You know, ‘Is Pope Catholic?’ I guess he takes some ribbing over that.”
“Not much,” Leopole laughed. “He’s one tough cookie, though it takes some people a while to figure that out. They see that baby face and shaved head and think he’s some kind of wimp. They finally get the point when they look up at him from the floor.”
“So why’d he get out?”
“His team had a mission in South America a few years ago. I don’t know the details, but it tanked pretty bad. I only heard him mention it once: six guys went in and Pope carried the other survivor out. He got an unpublished Silver Star, for whatever that’s worth. If I had to guess, I’d say he got out because he had survivor’s guilt. Maybe still does.”
Carmichael thought for a moment. “Well, it couldn’t be too bad if he’s still working in the operational world.”
“He’s a lot like Steve Lee. Really likes the work, especially the leadership aspects. He’s a very good rifleman and he’s into martial arts. Ninjutsu and some Israeli discipline.”
“Krav Maga ?” she asked.
“Hell, I don’t know. Anyway, as you’d expect, Pope is a tremendous swimmer. His idea of a good way to start the day is to jump out of an airplane ten miles at sea and swim ashore before breakfast.”
Carmichael absorbed that information. Then she asked, “Is Pope available? We need him immediately.”
“I left a message on his machine and sent an e-m
ail. We should hear something soon.”
“So you think he’ll go?”
“I’d bet the ranch on it. And it’s not just the action, Sandy. Pope takes his religion seriously. He and Terry Keegan really got into a pretty loud philosophical argument a while back. You know Terry was molested by a priest and left the faith as a teenager?”
She said, “Yeah, I know.”
“Well, Vic says that’s no reason to write off the Church of Rome. Anyway, Vic sees a spiritual aspect to the war on terror: Christianity against Islam. It’s not the sort of thing we’d ever publicize, but I tell you what: I’ve never known anybody as motivated as he is.”
