The Mercenary Option

by Dick Couch

  The flight attendant came back up the aisle and tonged him a damp, warm terry-cloth towel. He wiped his face and hands, then relaxed into the headrest and stared across a layer of unbroken clouds. Fagan knew there were situations in the world that, if not directly in opposition to U.S. interests, adversely affected our allies. Some posed threats to fledgling democracies. In the Muslim world, they were a threat to secular governments. Still others, if left unchecked, would cause immense humanitarian suffering. In short, there was still evil. How many thousands could have been saved if we had been effective in Somalia, or had moved early and quickly in the Balkans? And how many American lives are too many to put a tyrant in his place or to disband a small army of thugs preying on a defenseless population? Steven had always felt that if a cause was worth fighting for, it was worth dying for. Cruise missiles and smart bombs could only do so much. The Marines and Special Forces could do only so much. Maybe this way was a better answer all around; an idea whose time has come.

  Perhaps, he concluded, the old ways of conflict resolution are outdated. Economic sanctions and conventional armed intervention are just archaic, ineffective solutions to rogue states and rogue organizations. And consensus in the UN sometimes comes too late or not at all. Our nation is often bound by international organization, but I am not, he thought. Some very real problems could be better dealt with by someone like him. And, Steven reflected, not for the first time, maybe only by someone like him. Like all good covert operators, he was an excellent chess player; he could see several moves ahead. Politicians did not always do this. Sometimes a crisis cannot wait for a debate in Congress or the building of a coalition. If he had the funds to build the infrastructure and a free hand in the operational planning, a great deal of good could be accomplished by a very small number of people. He also knew there could be some terrible side effects along the way.

  The long, comfortable flight had afforded him little new insight. Perhaps that would come when he again met with his employer. They were out of the overcast just long enough for Fagan to glimpse the bland, rain-soaked Queens landscape before the wheels thumped onto the tarmac at JFK.

  Simpson was waiting for him at the table that evening. The dining room at the New York Athletic Club was not a place Steven would have chosen, but perhaps it didn’t matter. This was, after all, the final day of his assignment. Simpson rose and shook his hand warmly, and they settled into the booth.

  “Steven, thank you for coming. It’s good to see you again.”

  Fagan immediately noticed subtle changes in Simpson. He was dressed well, as he had been at their first meeting, but there was a certain crispness to him that had previously been absent. He looked less drawn, perhaps more confident than before, and there was a sense of purpose and well-being about him. While Steven had carried out his assignment, there had been a series of articles in the national papers about the Joseph Simpson Jr. Foundation. An unprecedented amount of food had just been delivered to refugees in the Sudan, Mozambique, and northern Iraq, and there were indications that relief efforts for victims of the recent flooding in Bangladesh had arrived in record time. What the public didn’t see were the millions of dollars quietly being pumped into secular education in Islamic nations. Some of these funds supported madrasas, or Islamic schools, but if they were found to be teaching violent anti-Western doctrine, the money stopped. Joseph Simpson, heretofore the private, publicity-shy man, was now photographed in the company of celebrities and industry leaders. He had been successful in attracting corporate gifts to add to his own resources. But the smiling, handsome face Steven had seen at fund-raisers in the paper differed from the one seated across from him. This man was cordial, but he was also deadly serious.

  Over dinner, Simpson told him of the work of the foundation. Fagan felt the older man’s controlled passion for the project. From Simpson’s description, Fagan could see that he employed the same expertise and organizational skills that had built his business empire. He had hired top people and had structured the foundation to work with existing, successful relief organizations. Steven knew from his own research that Simpson’s approach was sound. He was doing everything right—taking the best from established programs and building on them. Fagan also knew that such programs, even an effort skillfully managed by a man as capable as Joseph Simpson, could only work at the margins of the problem. Too often men with an ethnic or religious agenda controlled things. Too often the opposition had guns and lived beyond the reach of a central government.

  After the coffee was served, Simpson turned to him. “So what have you learned, Steven? Is there a way we can effectively attack this problem in, shall we say, an unconventional manner?”

  “Yes, sir, I believe there is. It’s not a course of action that can be taken without risks, but I believe it is possible. As you can perhaps imagine, there would always be the potential for attribution and political fallout. Not like when U.S. forces are involved, but there is always that risk.” He withdrew two thick, bound portfolios and handed them to Simpson. “The first document is a compilation of my research on the most recent flash points and the action, if any, taken by the international community to resolve them. Frankly, it’s not a very impressive track record. Then I took each scenario and applied the force structure that I believe is possible to create within the established parameters.” He met Simpson’s eye. “With a few exceptions, we could have positively influenced these situations, or at least provided a measure of stability until more permanent solutions could be found. In two of them we could have brought about a total resolution. As far as dealing with terrorists, well, in many cases not as many would have escaped. And we probably would have gotten bin Laden.”

  “The second document is basically an operational plan to stand up such a force, maintain it in an operational posture and ready to deploy on short notice. And since we must have the internal ability to support these operations in the field, the cost is substantial. I recommend an ethnic bias to the force structure. There are still some unknowns, not the least of which is the command and control structure.” Steven hesitated before continuing. “It’s not a course of action for the squeamish. We’re dealing with small units who must achieve a force multiplier through decisive, lethal, and often vicious action. Candidly, I think you may find my cure philosophically worse than the kind of thing we want to prevent.”

  Simpson set the two documents to one side and fingered his dessert fork. “Perhaps, but I doubt it.” Then he looked up at Fagan. “Naturally, I’ll want to spend some time with these. I have a feeling that your assessment of the problem may not be dissimilar to my own. Right now, I’d like you to tell me about your proposal. And more specifically, what some of the things you, or someone like you, could do if you had the funding and a mandate to act.”

  Steven anticipated this, but it was still difficult to know where to begin. “First of all, most of these problems are diverse, and their origins often rooted in generations of ethnic or religious hatred. Often it’s about religion, but mostly it’s about power. What would work in one situation may not be effective in another. And the effect may only be temporary, perhaps some breathing room until more substantial, multinational forces are brought into play.”

  “Or until some coalition can be formed?” Simpson almost spat the words.

  “You should also know, Ambassador, that some of these methods are not only illegal, they may in some cases be quite brutal, perhaps indiscriminately so.”

  Simpson seemed lost in thought, then again focused on Fagan. “Just how brutal, Steven?”

  “The use of force may not always be warranted. If it is, we must be prepared to do three things—three things that any unilateral or multinational force is usually unwilling to do. We have to take sides, take casualties, and shoot preemptively, perhaps even indiscriminately.” He paused, carefully framing his words. “For example, take the UN force currently in Bosnia and Kosovo. It is made up of Americans, British, and French servicemen who operate under very strict rules of
engagement—a document the size of a phone book. Under an arrangement like we’re discussing, one that is to be effective, there will be rules, but only our rules.” He cautiously sipped at his coffee. “Occasionally, we may be able to use misdirection or camouflage in our work with Mission: Impossible tactics, but not often. Quite often these situations require the direct, straightforward application of force. And sometimes the best way to kill the snake is to cut his head off.”

  “Assassination?”

  Steven nodded.

  “Tell me something of how you would go about putting this organization together.”

  Again, Steven was ready for this. “Ambassador—”

  “Please, if I may, I would appreciate it if you would call me Joe.”

  With a conscious effort, Steven continued, “Ah, Joe, I understand that you retained some of your real estate holdings—that you still own a few selected ranch lands and are now leasing them to Ameribeef.”

  “That is correct.”

  Steven talked for close to a half hour, and Simpson listened intently, interrupting only to clarify a point. When he finished, the older man sat forward, lost in thought. He remained like that for several minutes, then slowly shook his head and looked at Steven.

  “It’s brilliant, Steven—bold and brilliant.” Steven smiled tightly to acknowledge the compliment. Simpson continued, “And to do this right, to be effective, there will have to be a commitment of this size?”

  “That is my assessment. Our current foreign policy is a trail of failures because we hesitated, then acted indecisively and hoped for the best. No, Ambass—I mean, Joe—there are no guarantees, and most certainly there are situations that defy resolution. On the other hand, I firmly believe there are some very nasty, isolated problems we can address, but only if we are prepared to move quickly and with resolve. I think we can be particularly effective against the secret terrorist networks acting with tacit, if not overt, state sponsorship. And we have one decided advantage. Our decision making can be driven by operational considerations—clear assessments of the risk versus the chance for success. And how grave is the danger. No political considerations, no congressional debate, no UN resolutions, no public opinion polls, and no CNN. And another thing, Joe, the success of the mission may override the welfare of the men we send to do the job. That’s not always the case when we send ‘our boys’ in.”

  Neither man spoke for several moments. Steven reflected on how for the last half hour, he had talked of “we” doing this and “we” doing that. Have I come under the spell of this powerful and charismatic man?

  “How did we get here, Steven?” Simpson said quietly. “In a world that’s so exciting and full of possibilities, how can there be such inhumanity and suffering? How is it that two men like us are brought to contemplate such an undertaking?”

  Steven studied Simpson. The confidence he saw earlier was now sincerity and sadness. Steven made a helpless gesture.

  “I don’t know, but I’ve given it some thought. I think it may be related to the times we live in. It may be simply a matter of modern technology and dated cultures; them and us. Before 9/11, the evil and suffering were largely confined to other parts of the world. Now we know it can happen anywhere. Much of what is good in the world is related to technology, but it’s leaving a growing number of people behind. Technology is also empowering some small but very deadly and evil forces. Some cultures resist what the modern world offers because they are locked in the past and semiliterate. Tribal and ethnic rivalries dictate everything. Technology and secularism threaten their control.”

  Simpson considered this and agreed silently. Then he straightened up and measured Fagan.

  “Let me study this, and I’ll get back to you. I’m sure I’ll have some questions.”

  “That’ll be fine, sir.”

  He slipped the two documents into his briefcase and locked it, then handed Steven an envelope. “I want to thank you for what you’ve done so far. This is a bonus to show my appreciation for your professionalism and your work.” Fagan started to protest, but Simpson held up his hand. “I also have a few more questions, if I may?” Fagan held his gaze. “How do you feel about all this? More specifically, how will you respond if I ask you to carry out this plan—to be my CEO, if you will?”

  “I’m not sure, sir. During the past few weeks, I’ve thought a great deal about it—little else, as a matter of fact. To be truthful, I still don’t know.” He glanced at the envelope that still lay on the table. “It’s not the money; you’ve been more than generous. This is a big step, a life-altering step.”

  Simpson nodded. “I think we’ve both taken the time to learn something of each other in the last few months, Steven. I’m sure you know why I may be considering this. But what about you? It’s more than a big step for you; you have a great deal to lose. Why would you even contemplate this?”

  Steven gave the older man a twisted smile. “I can’t answer that one either. The whole business scares the hell out of me, but maybe it’s something that needs to be done. Our political process, and the American people, don’t seem to deal with this very well. Evil can attack at will without warning. We, on the other hand, must have a lengthy public debate. The attack by al Qaeda shocked us profoundly, but already America is drifting back into complacency. It is economically and psychologically very costly to respond to terror and evil. Politically as well. If we don’t have a preemptive strategy, we stand at risk for another strike, perhaps one far more devastating than the World Trade Center. I’m sure of one thing, though. If we don’t do it, no one else will. No one else can.”

  There was a heavy silence between them until Simpson spoke. “I’ll read what you’ve done. Then we’ll talk again.”

  Fagan slipped the envelope into his suit pocket, and they shook hands. Simpson sat alone at the table, deep in thought, for quite some time after Fagan left.

  Saturday morning, August 31,

  Coronado

  Judy Burks, lying on her stomach, moaned softly as she slowly awoke from a very sound sleep. Like a little bear, she was groggy and burrowed among the sheets, a pillow across the top of her head and shoulders. Gradually she became aware that she was not in her own bed—not in her San Francisco apartment. A faint notion of apprehension began to grip her. Where am I? Then she remembered exactly where she was, and a faint smile crept across her face. She moved a hand to the other side of the bed, and the smile faded.

  Garrett Walker stepped from the closet and dropped silently to the carpet. Quickly, he laced his running shoes. Then he began a precise, deliberate routine of stretching exercises. She watched him through slitted eyes as he moved smoothly from one position to the next. He was long-muscled and well-proportioned. His wide shoulders and heavy thighs seemed to accent his slim waist and hips. There was not an ounce of fat on him. His face was tranquil and relaxed, as if he were preparing for holy communion. Judy knew that this stretching routine and his morning run were a daily ritual with Garrett—a solitary, semireligious thing from which she was totally excluded. She also knew that he would be relaxed and very easy to be with when he returned. He adjusted the bezel on his watch and moved to the side of the bed. Gently he lifted the pillow from her head.

  “You awake, or are you playing possum?”

  She flapped an eye open. “I’m sound asleep and wish not to be disturbed.”

  “I see.” He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek; she was soft and warm and looked about twelve. “See you in a bit.”

  “That’s it,” she managed. “Going to just kiss and run?”

  “Uh-huh,” he replied with a broad smile and was out the door.

  Judy rolled over and pulled the sheets up protectively around her chin. She was not unhappy to have a few moments to herself; the night before had been one full of passion, and she was now feeling the uncomfortable aftereffects. She and Garrett had become lovers about two months ago. Even though they were lucky to see each other every other weekend, she now considered them an item.
The first time had been an evening not unlike last night. They had dinner at La Contessa and walked slowly back along Glorietta Bay to Garrett’s studio apartment. It was in an older building with a comfortable, spacious balcony that looked out across the Coronado Yacht Club and south along the Silver Strand. On a clear night, as most tended to be in Coronado, you could see the city lights that ringed San Diego Bay as far south as Imperial Beach. In the past, they had their coffee on the balcony, and then they would talk for an hour or so before she left. Last night, as he had that first time two months ago, Garrett asked if she would like some scotch. He brought her a tumbler with only a splash of Glenlivet. She was normally not a scotch drinker, but in the clear night air of the balcony with the bay lights sparkling, it was like sipping liquid gold. The combination of a warm, balmy evening and the liquor seemed to weave a seductive spell over them. As they kissed, Garrett pulled her up to him, and she followed him inside.

  She had tried to prepare herself, for she sensed that he would be passionate and physically demanding. He was that and more, but she was totally unprepared for his tenderness. He made love like he stretched—slowly and with a deliberate patience. There was an undercurrent of desire and urgency in his passion, but he managed it well, allowing her a full measure of pleasure before giving himself over. They made love more than once, and each time it was as if she was astride a volcano that could control its time and place, but not always its fury.