by Larry Bond
He wasn’t kidding. Though they were wearing wet suits and the Gulf water was warm by ocean standards, Conners shuddered as he released himself under the ASDS and began stroking toward the surface. Ferguson bobbed in the water a few yards away. The SEALs — perfect mother hens — swam around them, fussing and fretting, making sure that their two charges and their gear were okay. They were barely a hundred yards from shore, close to the remnants of an abandoned pier once used by an old cement factory on the shore beyond.
The minisub had used a special radar to scan the shore just to make sure no defenses had sprung up overnight; even so, the SEAL swimmers conducted their own survey using night-vision devices adapted to a water environment. They held their hands out, keeping Conners and Ferg back until they were sure it was safe to proceed.
“Gentlemen?” said Ferg. The swimming gear was equipped with com devices.
“Just checking the lay of the land, sir,” said the petty officer next to him. “Don’t want to deliver you into a machine-gun nest.”
“You won’t get a tip if you do,” said Ferg.
The deliverymen finally gave the okay, and the pizza began swimming toward the shore.
A half hour later, Ferg and Conners unpacked a pair of bicycles from the long plastic cases their SEAL companions had towed behind them to shore. Gear stowed beneath the broken timbers of the pier, they began pedaling toward their rendezvous point with an Iranian who had been recruited a year before by the CIA.
The contact was the most vulnerable point of the mission. Ferguson never completely trusted a foreign agent, no matter who vouched for him or what he’d done in the past. But the native would make it considerably easier to check the onshore sites that might be connected to the waste operation.
The cement factory sat at the far end of what in America would have been a port-area industrial park. There were several other abandoned facilities along the long access road to the highway that went north to the port itself. At the intersection with the highway sat a large area devoted to cargo containers; even though it was three o’clock in the morning, several work crews were unloading and moving containers. The two Americans pedaled past quietly, heading toward a field at the right side of the road where their contact, Keveh Shair, was supposed to be waiting.
A small pin of light flashed in the distance as Ferguson and Conners approached. Stopping immediately, they split up, Conners moving to flank the position in case it was a trap. His stomach felt much better now that he’d gotten out of the wet suit.
Ferguson slung his MP-5A5 — a SEAL-issued version of the familiar submachine guns designed to withstand a wet environment — over his back and started walking slowly toward the light. Rubble lay everywhere before him in the lot, and even if he didn’t want to give Conners time to find his position, he would have had to move slowly. The two men were connected through their Team communications system.
“Stop,” said a voice in Farsi.
A pair of shadows appeared roughly where the light had been. Ferg wasn’t wearing a NOD, and had trouble making them out.
“How we doing?” he asked Conners.
“Two guys, guns. Truck back by the road.”
“OK,” said Ferg quietly. The shadows were moving toward him. He held his hands out, said the password — Ayatollah.
One of the shadows laughed.
“I thought it was funny, too,” said Ferg.
“Mr. Ferguson?” said a heavily accented voice in English. “I’m Keveh.”
The two shadows materialized into a pair of bears. The one on the left had an early model M-16 in his paws. The one on the right stepped toward Ferguson, extending his hand.
There was a black pistol in it, aimed now at his head.
“Shit,” said Conners over the com system.
Ferg stood motionless.
“Where did you go to school?” demanded Keveh.
“Yale.”
“Who was your Philosophy Two teacher?”
“Xavier Ryan. Never met a Greek he didn’t like,” said Ferg. “Which is why he only lasted a year. I had Daniel Frick for conceptual physics. Now that was a kick-ass class. You know, if you run fast enough, you don’t weigh anything?”
“Excuse the precaution,” said Keveh, lowering the gun.
“Not a problem,” said Ferg. “What’d you do, download my course transcript?”
“A friend checked it. You understand here, there are precautions. I understood there would be two of you.”
“Yeah. He has you both covered at the moment. Excuse the precaution.”
* * *
The Islam Qaatar, originally built in India, was one of two ships being worked on at the Al-Haamden Dry Dock. It was impossible to see the ship from the road, but the yard looked as if it were only sparsely guarded.
“Easiest thing for us to do,” Ferguson told Keveh as they drove by a second time, “we go in as workmen. We don’t have to stay very long; we just plant some automated sensors and split. Maybe I take some pictures.”
“I don’t think so,” said Keveh. “They’re bound to have a list of who works there.”
“You sure?”
Keveh shrugged.
“How about a government inspector or something?”
“Doesn’t happen.”
“Then we’ll have to figure something else out. Let’s go grab some food,” said Ferg.
The Iranians took them to the edge of the city in an area that was the equivalent of an American middle-class suburb. The houses were only two or three years old, fairly close together, with identical white facades offset around the circular roadways. It was still dark, but Ferguson and Conners went in through the side door under the carport, stumbling against furniture before Keveh met them with his pin flashlight pointed toward the floor. He led them into a back room that had twin beds, then disappeared to get some food.
“I don’t trust him,” said Conners.
“Specific reason or general paranoia?” asked Ferg.
Conners shrugged. He didn’t have a real reason.
Ferguson took out his sat phone. While he could communicate with the submarine and Rankin by calling a number that connected with a SpecOps/Navy ELF underwater system, there was no need; they’d planned to spend the day reconnoitering. He called Corrigan instead, telling him they were ashore safely and proceeding.
“Anything new?” Ferg asked.
“Corrine Alston is pissing off everybody in sight,” said Corrigan. “She’s been in the library.”
“Good place for her.”
“Slott’s trying to find out what the hell the story is. I have Lauren babysitting her. I don’t trust her with any of the guys. Her legs are too sleek.”
“I hadn’t noticed. Any new satellite data?”
“Still being studied.”
“Jesus—”
“We may have something for you in a couple of hours.”
“All right. I’ll call you back,” said Ferg, as Keveh returned with a bowl and two plates.
Conners and Ferguson sat against the beds to eat, the bowl between them and their plates perched on their knees. The food was a kind of meatless stew. Conners had only a few bites; now that his stomach had settled he didn’t want to provoke it again. Ferguson, though, ate two helpings, then eyed what was left on Conners’s plate.
“All yours,” said Conners.
“Better not,” said Ferg. “Might make me fart.”
“At least.”
Ferg pulled up his shirt and retrieved the plastic envelope containing the satellite photos and diagrams of the dry-dock area. He penciled in the guard post he’d seen, shading the two spots where searchlights covered the perimeter. The security was concentrated around the roadway, probably intended more for its deterrence value than anything else. It was possible that there were cameras or high-tech detectors scattered around the yard; there was no way to tell for sure until they were inside.
He expected there would be more guards. The situation didn’t look promising
.
“Maybe everybody’s so afraid of getting their hands chopped off for stealing that they don’t steal,” said Conners. “Or maybe this isn’t the boat.”
“Yeah,” said Ferg. He pulled the area diagram to the top of his small stack. The two lots directly across from the dockyard warehoused construction materials, which arrived from an area to the south and were moved via flatcars. One of the photos showed items being taken off by crane in the eastern portion of the yard. There were two long sheds at the extreme western end, and what looked like train rails buried in the pavement running to the fence separating the dock area. If material were being brought down to be placed in the ship, it could come into the warehouse area, be stored in one of those two buildings — or any of the others for that matter — then moved across by flatcar and switcher engine simply by taking the fence section away.
“You’re assuming they’re not breaking the waste into smaller containers somewhere else,” said Conners.
“They may be,” said Ferg. “But this would be an obvious place, and since the sat boys haven’t seen it anywhere else, looking here makes sense.”
“I guess. Didn’t move the needle on the rad meter when we drove past.”
“Yeah,” said Ferg. “But we can’t totally rely on that. Maybe it’s shielded.”
Conners, starting to sense a bust, said nothing.
“Easy to get into the warehouse area,” Ferguson told him. He jabbed at the diagram. “We can walk right up this road. Guards are here and here. They have nothing on this side because of the water. So we come around here, look for radiation, check the sheds out, then go over to the shipyard.”
“Going to take nearly an hour,” said Conners. “That’s about a mile and a half you’re talking just to get into the site. Hour at least on each of the buildings, then we have to get around that fence. Going to be a long night.”
“Yeah.” Ferg leaned back against the bed. “You tired, Dad?”
Conners shrugged. “Not really.”
Keveh knocked on the door, then came in, holding a small ceramic teapot and three cups. He put the pot down and settled across from them.
“You have milk for that?” Conners asked.
The Iranian looked at him as if milk were the most ridiculous thing you could put in tea.
“Cream or something like that?” Conners asked.
Keveh shook his head.
“Be tough,” Ferg joked. He took a sip. The liquid tasted like a cross between Earl Grey and 30w motor oil.
“I was thinking we’d take a drive through the countryside,” Ferg told his host. “Couple of things I want to look at.”
Keveh nodded. Ferg unfolded his map of the port area and gave him a general idea of where they were going. Keveh nodded.
“When’s a good time?” asked Ferg.
The Iranian shrugged. “Now.”
“Well, let’s go then.”
“Scuff your shoes first,” said Keveh, pointing down. “Those will stand out if we get out of the car. Nothing’s new here.”
8
CIA HEADQUARTERS, LIBRARY AREA
After hours of staring at the computer screen, the glare from the overhead fluorescents began to feel like sharp fingernails scratching at Corrine’s eyes. She hadn’t had more than a few hours’ sleep for the past four or five days, and between the fatigue, coffee buzz, and all the data she’d been trying to assimilate, she felt like she was back in law school, cramming for a final. She punched the keys to kill the file and stood up, looking at her watch.
It was 6:05 P.M.; she’d missed lunch and dinner. Corrine got up from the desk, remembering that there was a package of Fig Newtons in her pocketbook, which because of security requirements she wasn’t allowed to bring into the reference area. She also wasn’t allowed to wear her shoes — instead, she had a pair of ill-fitting cardboard slippers that made her feel as if he she were a patient at a hospital with a library.
That’s what they called it, with a little sign on the door. They even had a little old lady with bluish hair to help you.
As counsel to the congressional Intelligence Committee, Corrine had been briefed on a number of clandestine operations, including two or three that featured cooperation between Special Forces and the CIA. The history of such operations extended to the Kennedy presidency; while they had been severely curtailed in the wake of the Vietnam War, they had gradually come back into favor and in fact enjoyed some success in Afghanistan during the war on terror. But the Joint Services Special Demands Project Office and “the Team” were unique in several ways:
1. Missions were authorized and conducted without any paperwork whatsoever — no findings, no bureaucratic review, no audit, no log, no mention anywhere in the extensive operations files. Whereas a typical — if there were such a thing — CIA mission would stem from an NSC finding, Special Demands specifically didn’t need such findings, and in fact none were in the records, which meant there had been none. Nor were there any records of direct executive orders from the president authorizing specific Special Demands programs or missions.
2. Missions were not authorized or reviewed at any level below or above DDO; there was apparently no way for anyone outside of the extremely small group of people involved even to know about them.
3. The Team apparently combined collection and paramilitary functions — it collected intelligence, then immediately acted on it. While this, of course, had happened throughout the CIA’s history, and in fact started during the OSS days, the line here seemed deliberately fused, with the same mission gathering intelligence, then immediately acting on it.
4. In Corrine’s experience, backed up by her review of the Agency’s records, most operations involving cooperation between the military and the Agency’s clandestine service were of relatively limited duration, ending when a specific goal was achieved. From what she had seen, the Joint Services Special Demands Project Office and its missions weren’t tied to specific operations. In this way, the model seemed to be the information side of the Agency, which provided intelligence to the military services on an ongoing basis. Not only could the goals change mid-mission — as they apparently had here — but the unit existed forever.
5. There were no apparent audit controls, and in fact Special Demands seemed to have an almost unlimited budget, with access not only to the extensive resources of a specially created Army Special Forces Group, but a variety of other service assets as well. The man in charge of the military end of the operation — Colonel Van Buren — answered not to USSOCOM, but to the head of Special Demands. Unlike other Special Forces groups, his core unit was not assigned a specific geographical area. It appeared to consist of only one battalion — smaller than the normal three combat battalions and nearly another’s worth of support people — but even that wasn’t clear from the documents Corrine had reviewed. While there were some military constraints on him — for example, he had to draw his men from SF units — from what Corrine could gather he existed entirely in a bubble, with no interference — or guidance — from higher-ups.
There was nothing, absolutely nothing, about the Kiro or current mission in the Agency’s own secret files.
Which spoke volumes, in Corrine’s opinion. The president’s characterization of the unit as “cowboys” brushed the tip of the iceberg.
This was exactly the sort of situation that had led to CIA assassin teams and unchecked, unlawful, and ultimately self-defeating operations in the 1960s. In some ways, the present situation was even worse — not only had technology improved tremendously in the past forty years, but the capabilities of the SF unit was far beyond anything available during the Vietnam War.
If she was reading what she’d heard and seen at the meeting correctly, Special Demands short-circuited the normal CIA chain of command, with the field officer actually running the show. Ferguson was too young to have extensive experience, and the DDO was clearly overwhelmed with his other responsibilities to pay too much attention. The SF colonel seemed to have decen
t sense, but he was more Ferguson’s equal than his boss. Corrigan was just a staff lackey, treated as such.
Not only did this stripped-down structure invite abuse, it encouraged mistakes. The Iranian ship was an international incident waiting to happen.
It was also a mistaken lead. Granted, it was logical; the prisoner had a clear connection to the group thought to have purchased the ship, and there were satellite photos and other data showing that trains did follow a path that would make diversion possible. But the Iranian government had infiltrated the local branch of the Islamic group two months before, and there was no sign at all of their involvement. The ship wasn’t guarded by Iranian police or troops, and the funding conduits they normally used for “overseas education” did not include anything related to the ship.
And if the May 10 message was correct, the ship couldn’t be the delivery vessel; it wouldn’t even be ready to sail by then. Admittedly, the message seemed like a red herring; it did no more than predict “disaster for Satan’s paradise.” Except that the language was similar to what Allah’s Fist had once used, it would seem no different than any dozen predictions the NSA and CIA routinely collected and dismissed.
Corrine had also taken the time to bone up on radiation hazards. The issue was extremely complicated — considerably more tangled than Corrigan’s slides had shown. High-alpha waste such as the material believed stolen in transit was extremely dangerous, but only if pulverized and inhaled. That was why Corrigan had mentioned the need for explosives — the waste would have to be spread into the air by a large explosion. Gamma generators, by contrast, were not quite as dire. But they, too, had an effect, usually over time. Overall, the exact health hazard was difficult to estimate, even after exposure, except under very controlled conditions, when the exposure was recorded with the help of a film device worn on the body. A single gray — a dose equal to one joule of energy absorbed by one kilogram — would cause radiation sickness, which meant nausea, vomiting, and dizziness; that level of exposure could lead to death in a few days — or not at all. Much lower doses might not make a person sick immediately, but could cause or perhaps encourage cancer — the exact mechanism wasn’t fully understood.
