The Mercenary Option

by Dick Couch

  Steven paused to consider this. What Simpson said rang true. When our focus was on the Soviets, considerations of ethnic differences, political repression, and human rights were minor considerations to a pro-Communist/anti-Communist agenda. Steven had seen it firsthand; we had pumped large amounts of money into the coffers of some brutal dictators because they had taken an anti-Communist stance—or convinced us that they were anti-Communist. Any pro-democracy leanings were a bonus. And Simpson was right, Steven conceded, about the perspective. When he was working at the agency, he was usually involved in a project, and the work was consuming. He seldom had time to step back and give some thought to the larger picture. Over the last year, Steven had had time to read and reflect. He had become increasingly aware that the seeds of a great deal of misery had been sown during the cold war. And a great deal of ethnic anger and religious fundamentalism had been held in check by the two super-powers as well.

  “I think I understand what you’re saying,” Steven replied. “The Communist system was our ideological enemy. Nuclear confrontation was unthinkable, so we made client states our battleground. Nations like Afghanistan.”

  “I think most of us agree,” Simpson continued, his eyes still blazing, “that the passing of the Cold War has left us with some very ugly residue. Instead of one big burning building, we are faced with a number of brush fires around the globe, some blazing openly, some smoldering but ready to ignite. In many ways this is a more difficult problem.” He looked away, releasing Steven from his iron gaze. “But until recently, we never thought that our national security was really at stake. We have a capable military, but we’re reluctant to use it. After the Gulf War and Bosnia, we thought we could solve our problems with air-power. Until 9/11, we were very reluctant to shed blood; it was too easy to send in the cruise missiles and the smart bombs rather than the Marines.” A look of disgust briefly passed over his features. “Even after 9/11 our national military response has been measured, proportional. Look how long it took us to face down Saddam Hussein. We still move too slowly.”

  Simpson sipped cautiously at his coffee. Steven sensed that Ambassador Joe Simpson was struggling to keep his emotions under control.

  “You see, Steven, at Ameribeef we retained a number of private intelligence services. For the most part their work had to do with the personal security of our people overseas, but not entirely. We kept an eye on terrorist activity because it affects where we do business and how we do business. Half of those twenty individuals on the FBI’s most-wanted list were terrorists we tracked on a regular basis. When bin Laden was expelled from the Sudan, we tracked him from Khartoum across North Africa and onto a freighter bound for Karachi. We passed this information through channels to the government, but no action was taken.” He pursed his lips. “I’m not saying this was a missed opportunity or that 9/11 could have been prevented if we’d moved on bin Laden; I understand nations have to make decisions based on politics, both domestic and international. But the gloves should have come off with the terrorist attacks on New York and Washington. They haven’t. We’re still playing the coalition games and letting world opinion unduly influence our decisions. Well, maybe it’s time to wean ourselves from these restrictions. Tell me, Steven, what do you know about the work of multinational nongovernmental organizations—excluding those sponsored by the United Nations?”

  “Not really that much,” Steven admitted. “There’s Amnesty International, Doctors without Borders, the Catholic relief organizations, and of course the International Red Cross. I’m far from any authority, but they seem to be effective when they are free to operate, but all too often the men with the guns restrict their effectiveness. When I worked at Langley, they were strictly off limits to us.”

  Simpson nodded. “Have you ever heard of an NGO that distributed armed force rather than food or medicine?”

  Steven hesitated. “No, sir, I don’t believe that I have.”

  “I see. Then tell me, if such an organization existed, are there not perhaps a number of situations around the world where this kind of NGO might be quite effective? Perhaps more effective than even our special operations forces or intelligence operatives, who are still subject to domestic and coalition politics?”

  Steven was now leaning on the table with both elbows. He felt the hair on the back of his neck bristle, because he now knew precisely what Joseph Simpson wanted. Still, he wanted to hear him say it.

  “So exactly what do you want me to do, Ambassador?”

  “I want you to do a study for me. There are sovereign nations playing cat-and-mouse with terrorists and providing them sanctuary. They support them financially; Iran gives money to Hezbollah, Saudi Arabia to Hamas. You tell me; how effective could such an organization, or force if you will, be in addressing those problems? We are talking about a small, secretly armed NGO. What should be its size; what would be its charter, its composition, its scope of involvement?” Simpson again paused as if to consider his words, but Steven was quite sure he was very sure of his agenda. “I’d also like you to consider the operational aspects—command and control, logistics, communications, training requirements. Just what would it take to organize, stand up, and deploy this kind of a force?”

  Steven stared at him for a long moment. He started to ask, but Simpson answered before he could.

  “We’ll have four billion dollars to devote to the project. More if we need it.”

  Steven Fagan did not go straight home from the Pelican Inn. Instead, he drove over to Muir Woods and took a long walk among the redwoods. He did this on occasion when he wanted to think or to sort things out. Usually he brought Lon. Long ago she understood when he needed to talk, and even when he didn’t, her quiet presence was a comfort. Had she been with him today, she would have said nothing.

  The sheer enormity of what Simpson had proposed overwhelmed him—operationally and morally—and he’d told Simpson as much. They did not use the M word, but the use of a mercenary force by any national or international entity could become a political nightmare. The United States had done this in Africa and in Laos, and neither achieved a satisfactory result. When the mercenary force left the field, as all mercenary forces must, the bloodshed that followed was usually unforeseen and catastrophic. The covert employment of an armed or paramilitary force is a serious piece of business; Steven Fagan had learned this from bitter experience.

  The planning for such an undertaking was staggering, let alone the operational considerations. It would be a massive and far-reaching undertaking. While the availability of near-unlimited funds was an asset, the handling of those funds in itself would present problems. There was the basic question of whether such a venture were feasible on the scale Simpson had in mind. If so, could it be effective—could it make a difference? Security considerations alone would be formidable. And if it were feasible, could he do it—would he be asked to do it? For his previous employer he had rigged elections, funded political movements, raised small armies, bribed politicians, coopted government officials, and recruited foreign agents. He had done all of this. Sometimes he had acted in the name of his own government, but more often than not in the name of foreign governments, real corporations, fictitious corporations, wealthy individuals, and in a few rare occasions, other unwitting U.S. government agencies. His was an art that required the talents of an accountant, a corporate executive, a military field commander, a choreographer, and a city planner. But always he had acted as an agent of his government; he had the moral authority of a soldier.

  Well into the main part of the woods and off on a side trail, he hoisted himself atop a huge downed redwood. Steven Fagan was not a large man, perhaps five ten, but he was very fit. He had been a college wrestler and retained a slight slope to his shoulders that came from a well-muscled back and neck. His wiry brown hair was just thinning in front, yet there was no hint of gray. Lon had encouraged him to let it grow longer, but he kept it near military length. Soft hazel eyes and a pleasant, regular face suggested that he might ha
ve been an actuary rather than a man of action. Americans often place much emphasis on appearances; Steven Fagan was a man people seldom looked at twice. But there was a particular intensity about him, and the hazel eyes seemed to darken when he was aroused or focused. He was also a man people seldom forgot once they had met him.

  Muir Woods was a well-visited tourist attraction, but if you kept to the side trails, it was not hard to find some privacy to enjoy the unique serenity of the old-growth redwood forest. The immense, silent trees, some of which had been there since the birth of Christ, seemed to mock men and their problems. Much of Marin County was arid with grass and scrub for vegetation, but the redwoods seemed to gather a cloak of damp air about them and press the moisture to the forest floor. It was a world of moss and ferns and thick, massive trunks. Steven closed his eyes and let the spirituality of the big trees settle over him. Then he smiled to himself and relaxed.

  Just as he had always done with a prospective assignment, he had mentally moved ahead to the operational aspects of the problem—the mechanics of doing the job. Perhaps it was his military training coming to the surface. But no course of action could be considered until he had studied the problem. Analysis and feasibility—that came first. No workable plan could be developed until the research was done. The key to successful covert operations was a careful examination of the situation. Forget the operational planning; study the problem. Only after he had thoroughly examined the problem could he begin to answer three key questions: was it doable, how could it be done, and what were the risks? Then, like a threatening storm cloud on the horizon, there was a fourth question. Was this something that he, or someone like him, would do—even want to do? And he had not been asked that last question. It was really that simple. Because it was a difficult and very complex problem, it would require a great deal of study. That was what he had promised Joseph Simpson he would do—study the problem and make recommendations. He smiled again and wished that Lon were with him to enjoy the last of the mid-afternoon sunlight that slanted in through the mist to the forest floor.

  Steven arrived back home late that afternoon and found Lon in her studio. She sat on a stool at her easel in a paint-smeared white smock. A vase of fresh-cut flowers perched on a fern stand in the center of the well-lighted room. Her watercolors had recently begun selling quite briskly in the galleries around Marin County.

  “That was a long lunch.”

  He stood behind her, leaning forward with his hands on his knees and looking over her shoulder to admire the canvas. “I stopped on the way back for a walk in the woods.”

  “Ah. Then would you like some tea?” Over the years, an invitation to tea meant, “Let’s spend some time together, and should you want to talk about it, I’ll be there to listen.”

  “That would be terrific,” Steven replied.

  The day had been warmer than usual, but it cooled quickly once the sun had ducked behind Mount Tamalpais. She brought tea and a couple of sweaters out onto the deck.

  “So how was your lunch with the ambassador?”

  “Interesting. He has a rather large project in mind, something that could ultimately turn into a very large operation—that is, if he decides to go ahead with it. For now, it’s a feasibility study.” Steven’s work since leaving the Agency had been a series of lucrative consulting jobs, although he had seldom done real work on these assignments—at least, not what a covert-action specialist would consider real work.

  “Are you going to do it?”

  “I’ve agreed to study the problem and make some recommendations.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Just a study?” It was not an accusation. She had spent three decades married to a spy, and if her husband declined to go into detail about what he was doing, she was never offended.

  “For now. But he did pay in advance.” He handed her a check. “I told him it would take about three months. Two months to gather the data, and the balance of the time to work up a rough operational plan. There will be some travel involved, but I doubt if I’ll be away for more than three or four weeks in all—mostly short trips.”

  She lifted both eyebrows. “Fifty thousand dollars! Ambassadors must get paid very well.”

  “Well, he really hasn’t been in the ambassador business for some time. He has, or at least he used to have, another job.”

  “I see.” She set the check aside and poured him more tea, then refilled her own cup.

  Monday afternoon, May 6,

  San Diego, California

  A file of black-clad figures moved silently across the metal decking and flattened against the bulkhead. Some were armed with light, collapsible-stock weapons, others with pistols. The leader made a few hand signals, and the squad members positioned themselves around the door. One of them stepped back and kicked the door before dropping to a shooter’s crouch. Two men entered quickly, crossing in front of the shooter, sweeping the room with their aimed weapons.

  “Clear left,” one said in an audible voice just above a whisper.

  “Clear right,” his companion replied.

  The other men poured through the door and quickly crossed the room, setting up on a second door on the far side of the room. In much the same fashion, they entered the next room.

  A third door took them back outside to a large sheltered area that led to an open interior passageway. The leader and one other man moved ahead along one wall, pausing periodically as a second pair leapfrogged along the far wall. Cautiously, they worked their way along the passageway, moving and covering, moving and covering, and always in a shooting stance. When they came to another open area, the leader raised a clenched fist, signaling a halt. He wore a long-sleeved jacket, helmet, goggles, and gloves. Cautiously, he peered around the corner.

  Across the open area, Garrett Walker and a second man waited behind a pair of fifty-five-gallon drums. Carefully, he aimed where the face briefly appeared.

  “Okay, turkey,” he said just loud enough for his companion to hear, “one more time.”

  A few seconds later, as if on cue, the face reappeared in the same place as before, and Garrett shot him twice in the head. Then all hell broke loose.

  Two of the squad members leaped forward and began to lay down a barrage of covering fire, while another man pulled the fallen man to safety.

  “Compromised,” yelled one of the dark figures. “Rear security out!” Dragging their leader by the collar across the deck, they retreated in semi-organized confusion. Two men at the rear of the file tried to leapfrog back down the dim passageway, but they spent most of their time looking behind them.

  Garrett left his barrel and jogged down the side of the ship to a thwart-ships passageway. He took cover behind a lifeboat davit and waited; he didn’t have to wait long. Two men in black backed out of the passageway, casting only an occasional glance over their shoulder. Garrett shot one of them in the back, two rounds between his shoulder blades. He sighted on the second man, but held his fire. After his opponent fired and missed, Garrett center-punched him twice in the chest. Then he rose and walked toward the confusion in the passageway, pumping rounds into the black forms crouched along the metal. A dark silhouette leaped forward, but before he could raise his weapon, Garrett put three rounds in him.

  “Aw, for Christ’s sake!” the man said and took a seat on the deck.

  Meanwhile, Garrett’s companion had left the oil drums and attacked from the other end of the passageway. Within seconds, the slaughter was complete. Garrett stepped to the head of the passageway and surveyed the damage.

  “Time!” he called and raised the goggles to his forehead. Except for some isolated grumbling, there was order. “Okay, heroes, let’s get back to the classroom.”

  The men began to pour from the shadows. They were spattered with red paint splotches. Their leader pulled a rag from his pocket and began to wipe the goo from his goggles. Red paint across the front of his helmet seeped into his hairline. He also had a small welt on his forehead. The 9mm Simunitions were close to the
real thing; though the bullet was paint instead of lead, it still hurt when you got hit. The SEAL officer led his men slowly down the port side of the vessel toward the stern and into an interior space that had been converted into a well-lighted classroom. The squad slumped into the chairs in the front of the room. They looked like a high school basketball team down thirty points at halftime.

  A few moments later, Garrett entered. There was not a mark on him. He paused to confer with a small group of instructors who congregated at the door before walking to the front of the room.

  “All right, everybody’s dead. How does it feel?” Those seated exchanged sheepish grins. “Gentlemen, this is a course designed to teach you the proper procedures for close-quarter battle. Just because you’re SEALs doesn’t mean you’re experts at CQB—not yet, anyway. It’s a learned skill, and it’s a team skill. Now, there were only two of us out there opposing you today.” A groan went through the group. “I know you thought there was a whole platoon of us, and there could have been. And we only initiated fire when you did something wrong.” He gave them a broad smile. “But we’ve done this a time or two, and we know what to expect. After all, this is our home ground. Remember, most of your fighting will be done on your enemy’s home ground.”