KBL

by John Weisman

  “Unknowns?”

  “Factors over which we have no control. Controlling the situation is critical, Mr. President. But if we were to convoy in, we’d have to contend with a wide range of uncontrollable factors.”

  “Such as?”

  “Traffic lights. Police patrols. Unscheduled roadblocks. Flat tires. Mechanical breakdowns. These are all distinct possibilities.” He looked at the president. “Too many nasty opportunities for Mr. Murphy’s laws to come into play, sir. We rejected this option.”

  “Captain?” The national security advisor raised his hand. “What is your estimate of the Pakistani response time? After all, the compound is within a mile or so of their national military academy.”

  “I’ll take that one.” Wes Bolin spoke. “There are no sizable Pakistani military installations capable of ground combat response within thirty-five miles. Further, we will use electronic countermeasures against all the west- and north-facing Pakistani radar installations. They will be deaf, dumb, and blind. I have had these countermeasures tested—and they work. Response time is almost one hour for ground troops. Aircraft will not be an issue.”

  “But if the worst happens?” Dwayne Daley bit his lip. “The Pakistanis are not third world. They have good equipment.”

  “I have allocated air assets in Afghanistan. We will have air cover. Response time will be less than ten minutes because the planes will be airborne.”

  Bolin stared down the counterterrorism advisor. “This is elemental, Dwayne. We protect our people. We plan for contingencies.”

  The president said, “What if we lose a Black Hawk? What if one crashes?”

  “We have the Chinook,” Bolin said. “We can put everyone aboard it for the extraction. And we would simply blow up the Black Hawk. The crews carry tools to destroy the electronics. We’d also have explosives to destroy the aircraft itself.”

  “And if it was the Chinook? Would you have rescue aircraft available?”

  “I will plan for it, Mr. President. I can keep two more MH-forty-sevens on the Afghan side of the border. Combined with air cover, we could get our people out safely no matter what happens.”

  “Good.” The president made a notation on his legal pad. “Admiral, what happens if we capture Bin Laden instead of kill him?”

  Bolin shrugged. “That’s up to you, sir. We are the tip of the spear. We do not make policy. We just carry it out.”

  “You schooled him well, Rich,” the president winked at the secretary of defense. “Good answer, Admiral.”

  He paused. “And what do we do with Bin Laden if he resists and you do kill him?”

  Bolin turned toward the CIA director. “I think Director Mercaldi has an interesting piece of history to tell you,” he said. “About Che Guevara’s death, and the lessons it teaches us today. I myself believe it is hugely instructional with regard to our current situation.”

  Bolin looked at Vince. “Sir?”

  35

  The White House Situation Room, Washington, D.C.

  April 19, 2011, 1745 Hours Local Time

  The president looked down at his notes. “That was very instructional indeed, Vince. Thank you. And I am convinced that what you have planned for our target’s final resting place is the perfect solution to what might have been a thorny problem.”

  The president’s face displayed relief. “I must say that you, and Admiral Bolin, and you, Captain Maurer, have made a very convincing argument that a helicopter operation could be successful. You have thought of what could go wrong, and you have come up with innovative ways in which to mitigate potential problems. And after listening to Captain Maurer, I have no doubt that his team of SEALs, airmen, Rangers, and other specialists—including the K-9 team, which I’d never in my wildest imagination factored into this scenario—can get the job done.”

  The president sipped from the bottle of water in front of him, then faced the secretary of defense and the Joint Chiefs chairman, who sat side by side halfway down the big conference table.

  “Rich, Mr. Chairman, I think your people deserve our gratitude, our respect, and of course, our best wishes for your success.”

  The SECDEF nodded deferentially in the president’s direction. The chairman stared straight ahead.

  Wes Bolin’s face showed both surprise and delight. “Thank you, Mr. President.”

  The president let his remarks sink in, his eyes never leaving Vince Mercaldi.

  That was when Secretary of Defense Rich Hansen caught the whiff of a smirk on Dwayne Daley’s face. Instinctively, he knew what was about to happen.

  And there was no way to prevent it.

  Because the president continued speaking. “But here’s the problem,” the president began. “We do not know beyond a shadow of a doubt that UBL is in that compound. Not after”—he ticked his fingers—“nine months, Vince. Nine months! Not a single solid piece of evidence. Nine months. And close to one billion, with a b, dollars spent. And for what? For nothing. Nothing, Vince.”

  The room fell silent.

  “No results.” The president’s face grew somber. “Not one shred of decisive evidence.” He fixed the CIA director in his gaze. “And now you want me to stage a raid. Violate the sovereignty of an ally. Break the law. Without a shred of evidence. Is that it, Vince? Is it?”

  It was Spike who rose to his feet. He was close to six feet tall and his girth gave him a certain Falstaffian presence despite the rumpled appearance. “Sir,” he said, his voice low, steady, and unexpectedly aggressive, “with all due respect, Mr. President, you are incorrect.”

  You could have heard a pin drop.

  “What?” The president’s face flushed in anger.

  “I have tracked this man for almost two decades,” Spike said. “I have had him in my sights three times before. Once in Khartoum in the early nineties, when no one but I and a few other crazies—as we were called at the time, Mr. President—thought he was dangerous. Once in Kandahar in ninety-eight, when the White House was unwilling to launch Operation Rhino even though we’d confirmed UBL’s presence and despite the fact that he’d issued a fatwa calling for war against the United States. And once at Tora Bora, when both the White House and the Pentagon refused us the assets we needed to put this, this murderer in the ground.”

  Spike caught his breath. “Yes, sir, you might—indeed you did at our last meeting—call the evidence that UBL is in Abbottabad ‘circumstantial.’ I choose to define the evidence as empirical. Because there is a difference. ‘Empirical’ evidence is based on observation and/or experience. That, sir, is what we have been doing since last August. Observing, and taking what we learn and folding it into our experienced overview of UBL. In other words, we have been obtaining empirical evidence. And taken as a whole, it becomes prodigiously, overwhelmingly, convincingly conclusive.

  “UBL has gone asymmetric against us. We use cutting-edge technology; he uses face-to-face communications carried by trusted couriers. We use listening devices; he plays his stereo or TV set loudly. We feel we need to see him; he stays indoors. So what do I do to counteract his asymmetry? I look at his world. I look at the food he eats—Arab food in a house that is supposed to be occupied only by Pakistanis, Pashtuns. I look at the occupants of that house: two men who we know for sure—for sure—are UBL’s most trusted couriers. I look at the way the house was built. It is a house built to hide one tall—six-foot-four or more—individual from public view. How do I know this? From the opaque windows and the seven-foot privacy wall on the terrace, to give you two examples. And I look at the whole picture. Surveillance cameras on the outer wall. Concertina wire on top of walls that go as high as eighteen feet. No wires coming in, no satellite communications capability, no telephones, no mail delivery, no garbage pickup, nothing delivered.” He paused. “No visitors. Ever.”

  Spike caught his breath. “So, sir, the question is, who lives like that?”

  The president sat mute.

  The analyst swept the room with his gaze. “Anybody? Who liv
es like that?”

  The chief of staff said, “Well, either a recluse, or a fugitive are the obvious choices.”

  “Yes, sir,” Spike said. “Recluse or fugitive. Except this recluse has two families living with him. Five children. Three wives. Two cars. It’s the families who do the shopping, clean the house, and slaughter the sheep. Oh, and the menfolk? They are armed. Or at least one of them is, because we’ve seen the weapon.”

  He paused. “So, recluse or fugitive, sir?”

  “Reclusive fugitive, maybe?” The chief of staff shrugged in response to the muted laughter his answer provoked.

  “Good call,” Spike interrupted. “That’s exactly what I think, too. And who would be the logical fugitive living in the same house as the two individuals Usama Bin Laden trusts the most in the whole wide world?”

  The analyst turned toward the president. “Sir,” he said, “I will be honest with you. In my mind, there is about a seventy-six, seventy-seven percent possibility that UBL is in that house. Not one hundred, or ninety, or even eighty percent. But in the real world, in my real world, that is enough of a possibility to justify action.”

  “It’s a long shot,” the president said after a pause, “What you want to do is very risky.”

  “Mr. President,” Spike said, “you can fire my Irish behind for saying this, but for too damn long our policy with regard to cases like this one has been based on risk aversion, not proaction. We could have killed UBL in Khartoum. As one of our CIA people said at the time, for the price of a ten-cent bullet we could have averted nine-eleven. The powers that be back then didn’t want to take the chance that the Sudanese might be offended. Why? Because there was all that Sudanese oil.” He paused. “Which the Chinese are currently getting all of. We had another chance in ninety-eight: Kandahar. But once again, we didn’t launch. The Clinton administration considered it too risky.”

  The analyst looked the president in the eye. “Bin Laden is there, sir. All the empirical evidence points to it. And if you miss this opportunity, it may be ten years before we get the chance again. How many more Americans can he kill in ten years?” Spike’s eyes glistened. “You cannot let this opportunity pass, sir. It would be—”

  “What?” the president cut the analyst off. He looked straight into Spike’s eyes, daring him to speak.

  Spike’s focus was unbroken. Attack, attack, attack. “Wrong, sir. It would be wrong. Morally wrong, politically wrong, and strategically wrong not to do this, and do it now. It may not be the safe and political thing to do, but, sir, with all due respect, politics can only do so much.”

  The president drew breath, as if he was about to speak.

  But Spike cut him off. “Mr. President, it is time. You have to draw a line in the sand. For yourself, for the nation, and for the future. Because if you don’t, it will come back to haunt you.”

  The president sat silent for perhaps half a minute.

  “If you are wrong, Spike,” he said, “this administration will be sorely embarrassed in the world’s eyes.”

  Spike knew it wasn’t the administration the president was worried about. But for the first time that day he held his tongue. “It won’t be,” he said diplomatically. “He is there, Mr. President. He is. As much as I know anything, I know he is there.”

  The president said nothing. He sat, hands clasped in front of him, staring into space.

  Finally he spoke, addressing himself to Wes Bolin. “Admiral, you have my provisional—repeat, provisional—approval to proceed with Operation Neptune Spear.”

  He looked down the table at Vince Mercaldi. “Mr. Director, I want an intelligence brief from you and Spike one week from today.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “After which I will, or I will not, sign off on this . . . undertaking.” He stared at Vince Mercaldi. “Mr. Director, remember that it is I and no one else who can sanction this operation.”

  “That is well understood, Mr. President.”

  “It better be.” The president slapped his folder shut. “Then that is all.” He got to his feet. “Thank you—thank you all for your hard work.”

  He looked toward Spike. “And thank you for voicing your strong convictions. You, especially, have given me a lot to think about.”

  “You’re welcome, Mr. President.”

  “And good luck to all of us—we’ll need it.” POTUS turned and left the Situation Room, trailed by the secretary of defense and chairman of the Joint Chiefs.

  The chief of staff, NSC Chairman Don Sorken, and Dwayne Daley followed grimly in their wake, their faces reflecting anger and defeat.

  Wes Bolin could hear Sorken’s voice imploring “But Mr. President” as the door closed behind them.

  There was ten seconds during which no one said a word.

  Then: “Oh, merciful God.” Vince Mercaldi sagged back in his chair and groaned.

  Concerned, Tom Maurer looked at the CIA director. He’d sweated right through his shirt. “You okay, Mr. Director?”

  “Call me Vince,” Mercaldi croaked. He wiped his perspiring face and neck with a wrinkled handkerchief. “Don’t know about you guys, but I could use an adult beverage right about now.”

  “Oh, Vince,” Wes Bolin said, “I could use about six.”

  Said Spike, “Semper Fi, Admiral, so could I.” He jerked his thumb in Vince’s direction. “And he’s the one who should be doing the buying.”

  36

  Embassy of the United States, Islamabad, Pakistan

  April 21, 2011, 1603 Hours Local Time

  “Geoff, it’s for you. Langley.”

  “Thanks, Courtney.” Geoffrey Woodward—the name was an alias—was CIA’s much beleaguered station chief in Islamabad. It was not a good place to be. The Taliban and the Haqqani Network had a price on his head. So did al-Qaeda. His relations with ISI, Pakistan’s bipolar intelligence service, were tenuous at best and of late had become permanently fractious.

  Only two weeks ago, ISI’s director general, Ahmad Shuja Pasha, had ordered Woodward to notify ISI in advance whenever any of his people planned to venture beyond the limits of the cities—Islamabad, Lahore, Peshawar, and Karachi—in which they were stationed. The origin of that edict was l’affaire Ty Weaver, over which ISI was still smarting.

  Woodward had smiled and answered noncommittally. Oh, yeah, he was really gonna comply with that one.

  Another was the ridiculous demand that he forthwith identify all CIA personnel in Pakistan as well as their agents.

  Moreover, the nasty relationship with ISI was only one of the fronts on which he currently had to fight. The other war pitted Woodward against his self-important, meddlesome boss, the U.S. ambassador, Cletus Winthrop Hampshire IV. Clete was one of those Foggy Bottom elites who believe that talking equals diplomacy; results aren’t important. And it didn’t help matters that he also insinuated himself into CIA’s aggressive drone campaign in Waziristan by taking the Paks’ side. To Clete, killing terrorists was undiplomatic and therefore, as the ambassador was fond of saying, “to be eschewed.”

  Tall, prematurely gray, and bearded, Woodward had been on station for only nine months. His predecessor’s true name and address had been bandied all through the Pakistani press, leaked by ISI because the American had aggressively built a successful network of Pakistani agents right under ISI’s nose. Langley was taking no chances of the same thing happening again; Woodward had therefore reported to the embassy bearing a diplomatic passport in which the only true fact was his first name. He’d arrived in early October, just in time to coordinate the setup of Valhalla Base. Between the Abbottabad operation, Ty Weaver, and ISI’s double-dealing, it had been nonstop since then.

  He picked up the receiver. “Woodward.”

  “Geoff, it’s Dick Hallett.”

  “Hey, fella. Good to hear from you. What’s goin’ on at BLG?”

  “Busier than a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest around here. Listen, I got some good news and some bad news for you.”

&
nbsp; “And your point?” Woodward heard Hallett’s hearty laugh and chuckled himself.

  “Good news is we’re about to break down Valhalla, so please gear up and let the lads up-country know.”

  “Will do.” Woodward paused. “And the bad news?”

  “We’re about to break down Valhalla, so please gear up and let the lads up-country know.”

  “Very funny. What’s the schedule?”

  “That’s the real bad news. Don’t know. But get them started now, because we could be shutting them down and extracting on twenty-four-hour notice.”

  “Geez.” Woodward exhaled. “We’ve got a ton of equipment up there. Moving it is gonna be a bitch. ISI’s all over us, y’know.”

  “Affirmative. But the schedule’s out of my hands. Seventh Floor stuff.”

  “Understood.” Woodward’s mind was already churning, trying to figure out the logistics of a covert repositioning that included packing and hauling millions of dollars’ worth of delicate surveillance equipment out of Abbottabad and getting it inside the embassy without the Paks or the ambassador knowing. “Anything else?”

  “What are you, a glutton for punishment? How many migraines do you want simultaneously?”

  “This one is enough, believe me.”

  “Then my work here is done,” Hallett boomed. “Thanks, Geoff. Gotta run.”

  “Take care, Dick. Have a Hendrick’s for me at Charley’s.” Charley’s was a restaurant on the corner of Chain Bridge Road and Old Dominion Drive, about seven minutes from headquarters. It operated under another name these days, but CIA veterans always called it Charley’s. They had reliable food, a decent wine list, and the afternoon bartender made perfect, ice-cold Hendrick’s martinis.