The Shadows of Power
Page 1
For Nita
We sleep safe in our beds because rough men stand ready
in the night to visit violence on those
who would do us harm.
—George Orwell
Contents
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Lieutenant Ed Stovic stared at his name on the flight schedule in his squadron’s ready room aboard the USS . . .
Chapter 2
The phone rang in the studio apartment in Georgetown with a loud, demanding ring that Ismael had grown to . . .
Chapter3
You were saying?” Kendrick said to St. John, who was running the meeting,much to the distress of Stuntz,. . .
Chapter 4
Lieutenant Ed Stovic and Karen, his wife, stood on the tarmac in front of VFA-37’s hangar at Oceana Naval . . .
Chapter 5
The escort arrived at 10:00 a.m ., just as Dr.Mohammed Nezzar had said, right after the muezzin cried their . . .
Chapter 6
Ismael walked up the stairs to his room at the Motel 6. He was in Virginia overlooking the beltway, the circular . . .
Chapter 7
Don Jacobs was furious. Rat hadn’t known him for long, but long enough to know that he was furious.
Chapter 8
Stovic and Pete Walters—the other new Blue Angel, whom they called Link—climbed into the . . .
Chapter 9
Brad Walker sat heavily in the chair in Sarah St. John’s White House office just down the hall from . . .
Chapter 10
Rear Admiral Don Hooker walked down the passageway of the Pentagon.
Chapter 11
Secretary of Defense Howard Stuntz sat in his burgundy leather chair in his plush office at . . .
Chapter 12
“So, Bradley,” the Secretary of Defense said. Stuntz sat in his leather chair and leaned back slightly,. . .
Chapter 13
Rat and Stovic showered quickly and joined the others in the lobby, Stovic in his invincible superhero . . .
Chapter 14
The Blue Angels had changed into jeans and polo shirts and were standing around small tables in the bar . . .
Chapter 15
“Carl, Sarah.”
Carl Dirks, the Attorney General, was taken aback.
Chapter 16
Stovic turned away from the window and drew the heavy curtains, throwing the room into unnatural dimness.
Chapter 17
Rat went to Langley to see Jacobs directly after the funeral. It had been a good funeral.
Chapter 18
St. John sat straight up in her bed. She was sure she had heard the doorbell.
Chapter 19
Ismael bent over, gasping for breath. He had always thought of himself as being in good shape, but . . .
Chapter 20
Ismael and Madani walked into the back room of an apartment above a discount camera store.
Chapter 21
Stovic sat in his hotel with his feet up on the beautiful antique French settee.
Chapter 22
Lew paced back and forth. Stovic and Rat sat at the same conference room table where Lew and . . .
Chapter 23
Ismael had slept in the back of his van in an industrial section of Paris, blending in easily with the other . . .
Chapter 24
Stovic awoke with his stomach in turmoil. He skipped his usual morning run and ordered . . .
Chapter 25
The French continued to arrest every known Algerian troublemaker and even many of whom they . . .
Chapter 26
The Blue Angel diamond pulled up into their loop. White smoke streamed behind them as the Admirals . . .
Chapter 27
Stovic and Oden rendezvoused three miles west of the air field.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
OTHER BOOKS BY JAMES W. HUSTON
CREDITS
COPYRIGHT
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
Lieutenant Ed Stovic stared at his name on the flight schedule in his squadron’s ready room aboard the USS Harry S. Truman. He was listed as the wingman for Commander Pete Bruno, the squadron commanding officer. Stovic hardly ever flew on Bruno’s wing. His eye quickly scanned over to the mission—covert escort of an EP-3. The big slow EP-3 was to fly down the Mediterranean coast of Algeria and “listen.” Collect intelligence. There had been some talk that the Algerians were getting testy about the American battle group crossing into Algeria’s newly claimed two-hundred-mile economic zone. It was just the sort of thing that might stimulate a response from the new Algerian government.
Stovic tried to contain his surprise as he looked around the ready room. All the other pilots were watching, some smiling, some giving him looks of feigned anger for having scored the only good hop on the schedule. He was to launch before the official first launch.
Stovic briefed with Bruno and manned up. The excitement was noticeable in the crisp movements of everyone involved in the special launch of the two fighters. It came off beautifully. The two F/A-18E Super Hornets rendezvoused with the tanker above the carrier to top off their fuel tanks. They pulled off the tanker and flew low and fast to their rendezvous point, a random latitude and longitude in the middle of a lonely section of the Mediterranean Sea where the EP-3 waited for them, orbiting a thousand feet over the sea.
The EP-3 wagged its wings on seeing the Hornets across the rendezvous circle. The Hornets closed on the EP-3 from the left and slightly behind. Stovic studied the ungainly plane. He had never seen an EP-3 close up. He had never wanted to see it close up. It wasn’t a fighter, so he had never thought much about it. But now he noticed the bulges and antennas all over it, like body piercings defacing its otherwise clean body. Stovic watched Bruno carefully, waiting. Bruno glanced at him, raised his left hand above the canopy rail, then closed his fingers and thumb together, like grabbing a sandwich, to indicate he was about to open his speed brakes. Stovic moved his finger to the speed brake button. Twice, three times Bruno made the signal; then he moved his head forward and quickly back to signal execution. They deployed their speed brakes simultaneously, and their closure on the EP-3 slowed even more.
The EP-3 was flying at two hundred twenty knots, slow for the Hornets but manageable. Bruno moved up close to the EP-3, up to the cockpit where he could see the pilot, who waved at them. Bruno nodded. He looked over at Stovic, who was tucked comfortably under his left wing. Bruno backed off, dropped under the EP-3’s left wing, kissed off Stovic, leaving him there, and crossed under the EP-3 to the right wing where he took up his own position. They tucked up close to the larger plane, now invisible to any radar that might be looking.
* * *
Chakib Nezzar glanced ahead as his flight lead lifted off the runway. He pushed his throttles all the way forward. Brilliant flames roared out the back of the enormous engines of his MiG-25 Foxbat as the huge Russian-made fighter raced down the runway outside Algiers. Nezzar raised his landing gear and climbed after Hamid to join him as they headed out to surprise the American spy plane.
They climbed through fifteen thousand feet, careful not to use any of their electronic equipment. The American plane could detect any electronic signal they might make, and it almost certainly had Arabic linguists aboard listening to any radio communications. It was nearly impossible to surprise one of the U.S. Navy’s EP-3 intelligence-gathering airplanes, but they were sure going to try.
Nezzar heard the first intercept transmissions. “Bearing 350, distance 300.” It was in the blind, requiring no acknowledgment. He knew it was for him, and he was to add ninety degrees to whatever heading they transmitted and subtract one hundred fifty kilometers fr
om any distance. So the American plane was 080 from them, one hundred fifty kilometers away.
They increased their speed, pushing through the sound barrier, through Mach 1.2, and headed directly for the unsuspecting American plane, which was ten thousand feet below them.
* * *
Kent Rathman used his new CIA badge to open the door to the Counter-Terrorism section on the first floor of the enormous office building in Langley, Virginia. He was surprised it actually worked. The first time was always iffy. He walked down the hallway, looking for Don Jacobs, the Director of Counter-Terrorism at the Agency. He spotted Jacobs’s office across a large area full of cubicles and walked around to approach it from the side without the window so his approach couldn’t be seen. He looked through the crack behind the door where it stood open and saw Jacobs still sitting at his desk checking his watch. Rathman stepped silently through the door. “Morning, sir,” he said quietly.
Jacobs jumped, catching the expression on his face before it could fully develop into the shock he felt. “What are you doing in here? Are you Rathman?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’re supposed to meet in a conference room. Didn’t you get my message?”
“Yes, sir, but there wasn’t anyone there. I thought I’d come find you and save you the walk.”
“We’re still going to the conference room.” He started walking down the hall, then stopped. “We need to get one thing clear right away. I don’t like games. If you like games, you’re in the wrong place. You got that?”
Rathman tried not to smile. “Sorry, sir.”
They reached the conference room. Jacobs grabbed a carafe and poured coffee from it. He held it up, asking Rathman if he wanted any.
Rathman took a cup gratefully. “Thanks.”
“You come highly recommended.”
Rathman said nothing.
“Have you met Carpenter?” Craig Carpenter was the Deputy Director of Operations, the number two in the DO, the Directorate of Operations. The Directorate of Operations consisted of several subdivisions, including the CAS, the Covert Action Staff for political and economic covert actions, the PM for paramilitary covert action, and the Special Operations Unit, for counterintelligence. Within the Special Operations Unit was the SAS, the Special Activities Staff.
“Yes sir. We’ve gotten to know each other pretty well.”
“Why did he pick you to set up a new SAS team?”
“I think I was just available. He interviewed me, and thought I’d be a good liaison between the SAS and your people.”
“So you’re now a member of the SAS. At least temporarily.”
Most people talked about the SAS in hushed tones. It was odd to hear Jacobs asking about it in full voice, not caring who was listening. “Yes, sir.”
“What do you know about them?”
The SAS was one of the least well-known special operations units in the country. The Special Activities Staff—a nice vague name for a very pointed, deadly group—was responsible for covert action undertaken by the Agency. Rat had done his homework. He wasn’t about to accept his current assignment without learning everything there was to know about the SAS. “I’ve gotten a lot of good information but would always like to know more.”
“You have a lot of experience,” Jacobs said watching Rathman’s face. “You were involved with the French Special Forces in Bosnia. You nabbed several of the most wanted war criminals.”
Rathman controlled his surprise. “Who told you that?”
“And after the World Trade Center, your Navy group, Dev Group, was given a pretty free hand. We heard you were personally involved in several missions.”
Rathman paused. “I can’t really talk about much of that.”
“I’ve read all the op reports. You think I’d let you be the liaison with my counterterrorism people without checking up on you?”
“I assumed you had,” Rathman said.
“One thing makes me wonder, though.”
“What’s that?” Rathman asked, sipping from his coffee but not taking his eyes off Jacobs.
“If you’re so good, why did the Navy let you come on temporary duty to the SAS? Why would they let you go?” Jacobs didn’t want to say what he thought, that the SAS hadn’t done as well as had been expected in the War on Terrorism. This was a clear attempt on the part of the special warfare community to cross-pollinate those who had done spectacularly well into the CIA. Jacobs resented it.
“I was due to rotate, and my detailer was sending me back to BUDS.” Basic Underwater Demolition/Seal training, in Coronado, California, was where all Navy SEALs were trained. “They were going to make an instructor out of me. My Dev Group CO thought that was a waste. He set this up.” Dev Group, or DEVGRU, the Development Group, as it was known, was the Navy’s counterterrorism SEAL team. The elite of the elite. The Navy didn’t even acknowledge its existence. They would talk of a certain SEAL team, its predecessor, but not DEVGRU. The group was elusive, unidentifiable, able to work both under cover and overtly.
Jacobs stared at him. Too pat. “Nothing else?”
“No, sir.”
“Sure?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You haven’t been sent here to ‘show us how to do it’ or something, have you?”
“Not at all. I asked for another operational billet, and they asked me if I’d be interested in going TAD to the SAS.” That was mostly true. They had begged Rathman to go to the SAS. They needed more people operating at the highest levels. They needed to expand the American Special Forces capability wherever they could. And somebody had big plans for the SAS.
Jacobs smiled. “So have you been able to set up your corporation?”
“All set, sir. International Security Consultants, Inc. I’ve already got rental space in D.C., Virginia Beach, and New York and a whole bunch of employees. Even a few contracts. We even have a couple of weapons evaluation contracts from the U.S. government. Business is good.”
“It had better be. This has to be a going concern. You have to actually get business and fulfill contracts.”
“We’re all set.”
Jacobs drank from his cup as he looked over the top of it at Rathman, the one they called Rat. “I understand you’re good with languages.”
“Some. I can’t do oriental languages, but I can handle a couple of others.”
Jacobs stood. “Where’d you learn them?”
“Monterey.” The Defense Language Institute was in Monterey, California. They could make someone speak like a native if they had him for long enough.
“Where will you spend most of your time?”
“Here in Washington. This will be my main office. The Virginia Beach office is a good second bet. I don’t plan on going to New York much.”
“How many people do you have working for you? I understand they’re all part of the package.” He said “package” with some sarcasm, as if he wasn’t quite sure what was in the package that had just been handed to him. The SAS usually operated in teams of twelve, sometimes two teams together.
“Well, yes, sir. I thought your people interviewed and cleared all of them. At least that’s what I was—”
“Yes, yes, we did. How many?”
“It’s a flexible number, frankly. They have their own operations here and there, unrelated to whatever I’m doing, but in a push I could get probably twenty-four or so together for anything you needed.”
Jacobs liked that answer. “I look forward to working with you. Rat.” He said “Rat” with the vague distaste he felt for anyone who was just outside his grip. “By the way, why do they call you that?”
“Just a name thing. Based on my last name. Rathman—RAT-man. It started at Annapolis. I look forward to working with you too, sir.” Rat meant it. He was stepping into a different world. Operating with DEVGRU had been his life, covert overseas operations, raids, kidnappings . . . other things . . . all in support of the longstanding, smoldering War on Terrorism. They had had success, but there
was much still to be done. Rat was enthusiastic about going after terrorists from a totally different angle, with different tools and objectives. Whatever it took. It was a dirty war, but a war nonetheless. “I hope I can help you succeed.”
Jacobs’s face broke into a wrinkled, reluctant, ironic smile. “I need all the help I can get. I’ll be in touch—”
A young man in a white shirt and tie and a CIA identification badge dangling from his neck rushed into the room. “Mr. Jacobs, you said you wanted to know if that Algerian thing got hot.”
“What’s up?” Jacobs asked, glancing at Rat.
“The Algerians have launched fighters and are going after the EP-3.”
“How many?”
“Two.”
“Did we do the escort?”
“Yes, sir. Two Navy F/A-18s are under the wings.”
Jacobs put down his cup. “This could get interesting.” He looked at Rat. “Come on. Let’s see what the Algerians do when they find out our unarmed intelligence plane isn’t so unarmed.”
* * *
The E-2C, operating two hundred miles away, broadcast through its encrypted radio to the two navy fighters: “Gulf November 103 flight, you have two bogeys approaching from the west. Angels unknown, estimated speed, Mach 1.5.”
Stovic felt a rush of adrenaline as the transmission sank in. He ensured his radar was off, as was his radar altimeter and anything else that would send electronic signals out of his airplane. They hadn’t said a word on their radios since starting their jets. As far as anyone else could tell, they weren’t even there. Their radar signature would blend in with the EP-3 that flew five feet above their heads with its four large turboprop engines turning methodically.
Inside the EP-3 Chief Petty Officer Jerry Kenny pressed his earphones to his head. He squinted at the screen in front of him as he dialed the frequency in more carefully. He finally took his hands away, nodded to the linguist next to him, and pointed to the frequency. He started the tape. He switched the large screen display in front of him to the radar repeater mode and saw the two targets their air controller was watching. The two targets, bogeys, as they were being called, were fifty miles behind them.