The Mercenary Option

by Dick Couch

  “Good evening, Joseph,” an older gentleman said, offering his hand to his new passenger. “Thank you for flying down and agreeing to see me like this. How are you?”

  “Very well, Armand. It’s good to see you again. I hope you are well.”

  Joseph Simpson and Armand Grummell were men who understood the need to be polite at a cocktail party or a function of state as their duties required, but not in a private setting like this—unless they really meant it. They had known one another for years; how could they not? Grummell had been the DCI when Simpson was the Ambassador to Russia, and while it could not be said that they were close friends, there was a respect and consideration between them that flows naturally between men of ability and character. They exchanged pleasantries while the limo fought its way free of the congestion and onto the Key Bridge. The big car plunged into Roslyn before circling south in search of the George Washington Parkway. Grummell touched a button, and the partition behind the front seat hissed up into position. They were now in a soundproof cocoon in the generous rear compartment. Grummell decanted a glass of mineral water and offered it to Simpson, then poured one for himself.

  “Again, it was good of you to come. I hope my phone call this morning didn’t create any, ah, difficulties for you.”

  Simpson paused to frame his answer. “No, not really. It was a call that sooner or later, myself or one of my people was going to have to make to someone like you.” Simpson smiled. “Perhaps not so soon and perhaps not at your level. We wanted to first build our organization and test our operational readiness. That has been done, and we are now conducting exercises to refine our capabilities and to train our planning and supervisory personnel.” Simpson sat silently a moment before continuing. “Armand, in order to save time, perhaps you should tell me what you know about Guardian Systems International. Along with that, I would like to know, if it is not too much to ask, who else in your organization and the government knows about us?”

  They were like schoolboys in the lavatory. If they were going to compare the size of their penises, they were both going to have to pull their pants down.

  Grummell nodded and smiled. “Jim Watson contacted me after the two of you talked some nine months ago. He told me of your request that he tell no one about it, but Jim is a patriot. I asked him to do what he could, short of initiating any sort of an investigation, to see what you were up to. Basically, I think I have a fair idea of the composition and nature of your organization. It’s certainly more than just a corporate security venture. I can only guess at its capabilities and what you have in mind for it. I was hoping you could elaborate on those points. As for who knows, until yesterday, only Jim and myself. But yesterday I briefed the President. I don’t have to tell you that these are uncharted waters, for all of us. I told you that we had a crisis in the making, one that could seriously damage our national interests. It’s of such a magnitude that we can’t afford to ignore any option, even those which technically do not exist. In short”—Grummell chuckled mirthlessly—“we’re trying to figure what the hell to do about it. It’s serious, and we can rule nothing out. Your organization may even be able to help us. Are your people airborne?”

  Simpson nodded. “They are.”

  Early that morning, Simpson had received a call in Boston from CIA headquarters in Langley to set up a secure line with the DCI. Armand Grummell had come on the line and asked for this meeting. He also asked if it would be possible for the key personnel of his Kona-based operation to come to the mainland for consultation. Grummell further said it was a matter of some importance and that time was of the essence. He had said no more, nor did he have to. Simpson was given a contact number at Nellis Air Force Base near Las Vegas and telephoned Steven Fagan to put things in motion. Steven had taken the call on the Big Island at one o’clock in the morning there.

  “Then could I ask that you provide me with a very brief overview of your current posture and capabilities?”

  “I assume you are versed on the general corporate structure and composition of Guardian Systems?” Grummell nodded. “Our Hawaii facility operates under that corporate umbrella and is now home to a group we call the Intervention Force, or IFOR for short. IFOR currently is made up of native Gurkha infantry trained in classic special operations and paramilitary disciplines.” Simpson spoke for close to fifteen minutes, and Grummell listened without interruption. “We may not be capable of throwing Saddam out of Iraq,” Simpson concluded, “or even help to disarm him, but our organization may be suitable for smaller, emerging crises.”

  Then both were silent for several minutes before the DCI cleared his throat. “Perhaps we might just have one for you. I told you earlier this morning that we were faced with a unique and dangerous situation, and on that basis alone you took the initiative to put your organization, your IFOR, as you call it, on alert. For that I would like to thank you again. Perhaps it’s time for me to describe what we have just learned and the nature of our concern. This has nothing to do with Iraq, but although we’ve begun to move forces into the area, we can do nothing until this is settled.” He took out a map of Central Asia and attached it to two alligator clips on the privacy partition. “We know that two nuclear weapons have been removed from the A. Q. Khan facility at Kahuta here”—he pointed to the facility in northern Pakistan—“and are probably somewhere in central Iran. We think we know whose hands they are in, and we believe one or both of these weapons will be used to sabotage the Trans-Afghan Pipeline.” Grummell paused to let this sink in. He watched Simpson, but his features were impassive.

  “Go on,” he said simply, and Grummell did. He held nothing back, save for any information that related to the sources that had produced the intelligence. He would not reveal those contacts, even to the President.

  “So what do you require from us?” Simpson said at length.

  “We’d like you read into the problem as the situation develops, and as appropriate, prepare options or a course of action to recover the weapons.”

  “And punish those responsible?”

  “Perhaps,” Grummell replied, “but later, if it comes to that. We need to get this genie back into the bottle. That is our first priority.”

  Simpson nodded. “How do you want to handle this?”

  “I’ve sent Jim Watson to meet your people at Nellis. He will read them into the problem. He has a technician with him who will provide you with equipment for a secure and very closely held data feed from my headquarters. Any requests you may have for information, imagery, or anything else can be made via that link. It is a sterilized, coded link with no attribution. Which brings me to our relationship. We have been thrown together, if you will, by this crisis. The use of your IFOR at this stage is only a contingency—a possibility and no more. No matter what happens, the President and I personally want to thank you for responding to our call. For our part, we will do everything possible to protect your security and your anonymity. Past that, and going forward, well”—he smiled—“that is a new kettle of fish, I suppose.”

  “I suppose,” Simpson replied with an easy smile.

  There was nothing more to say; neither wanted to speculate about the future. They rode in companionable silence. “Where can I drop you?” Grummell asked finally.

  “The Watergate would be fine.”

  Grummell pressed the intercom. “The Watergate, please.”

  The big limo held the speed limit back up the Parkway and took the Memorial Bridge across the Potomac back into town.

  “Jim Watson will have instructions for communication and liaison. I have left the details to him to work out with your people.” He handed Simpson a card with a number written on it. No name. “This is my secure line. Let me know if these arrangements, or any others he may propose, are not acceptable.”

  Simpson took the card and slipped it into his shirt pocket. “Thank you, Armand, for your candor and the professional way in which you are handling this. No doubt we’ll talk further as events unfold.”

&nb
sp; The limousine coasted to a stop in front of the Watergate Apartments. The doorman would have come to the car, but the man in front was too quick for him.

  “Good night, Joseph, and thank you again.”

  “You’re quite welcome. Good night, Armand.”

  Simpson turned and walked away without a backward glance. The limo retrieved its man and pulled away. Not once had either man mentioned the need for security or discretion. They were, after all, men of ability and character.

  Friday, December 13, Nellis Air Force Base,

  Las Vegas

  The Gulfstream lightly kissed the tarmac and began its rollout. It was a delicate bird, gleaming and white, with blue striping and a modest GSI logo blocked on its tail. The tower gave the pilot his instructions, and he taxied to a piece of hardstand well away from the hangar area. It was approaching late afternoon, and the temperature was well over a hundred degrees. They parked next to another Gulfstream, also gleaming white, but this one was unmarked. Once the door was opened, Steven Fagan descended the stairs and walked around the nose of his aircraft.

  “Hello, Steven.”

  “Hello, sir. Good to see you again.”

  “And you,” Jim Watson replied. “It’s pretty hot out here. My place or yours?”

  Steven surveyed the unmarked military jet. “How about our place? Just a guess on my part, but I’ll bet our bar is a lot better stocked than yours.”

  As they made their way up the boarding steps, a fuel bowser and an auxiliary power unit crossed the tarmac to service the aircraft. Once inside, Steven introduced Watson to Garrett and Janet. The Gulfstream was richly appointed, with light gray tucked-leather seating and burgundy carpeting. There was a lounge forward, but the rear of the aircraft was configured with a small oval conference table served by four comfortable, high-backed chairs. Behind the drawn curtains were four large oval windows on either side of the fuselage. It was an elegant flying conference facility. The attendant took their drink orders, then retired to the cockpit area with the pilots.

  “As I understand,” Watson began, “you as yet have no knowledge of the events that have brought us here, correct?”

  “That’s right,” Steven answered for all of them.

  “Well then, I had better fill you in.” Watson, Steven, and Garrett all had iced tea before them. Janet Brisco settled for a tall mug of coffee. “First of all, I represent Armand Grummell, who is acting as a personal representative of the President. In short, I carry no official portfolio for my agency or my government, but you all know who I work for. I am here to brief you concerned citizens about a very serious problem that has just surfaced. I have been directed to tell you everything I know about this problem. I am then to establish communication links with you so as to keep you updated on the situation and to provide any information you may require. Okay so far?” Heads nodded. “Before I get started, let me share with you what knowledge the Director and I have of your organization thus far. Following my conversation with your principal some months back, I took the issue to Mr. Grummell.” There was no hint of apology in his voice. “He directed me to keep an eye on you within the boundaries of casual inquiry. So I did. I’m sure there is much we don’t know, but let’s just say that we understand you have developed a certain paramilitary capability and that your reasons are not inconsistent with the national interest, fair enough?” Again, heads nodded. “So I am going to tell you about our problem. The President and Mr. Grummell feel you may be able to help us with it, or at least provide us with a response option we don’t currently have. When I’ve finished, you can tell me more about what you are doing on Hawaii, or not. Fair enough?” He paused before continuing. “Okay, let me tell you what has happened and why it scares the hell out of us.”

  When he finished, Garrett Walker whistled softly and rose. “I think I’ll get myself something stronger than iced tea. Anyone else?”

  “What I really want is a cigarette,” Janet Brisco replied, “but I’ll settle for some gin on the rocks.”

  “So what do you want from us?” Steven asked Watson.

  “For now, study the problem. If you think your force can come up with a plan to bring about a resolution to the issue, I will pass it along for consideration. We think, but as yet we have no hard evidence, that the bombs are in Iran. Going into Iran is a big step for us, almost impossible given the emerging crisis with Iraq. It would be strange if Tehran had no knowledge of Mugniyah’s whereabouts, but whether they know what he’s up to or not is anybody’s guess.”

  Janet tapped the ice cubes in her drink with her ring finger and placed the tip of it thoughtfully in her mouth. Both Steven and Garrett looked at her; she was the planner. “We have our own resources,” she told Watson, “but we are not the United States intelligence community. If we need something?”

  “My instructions are to give you whatever information you request, quietly and securely. We will be directing a great deal of time and energy to this situation. Our only constraint is that we don’t, at this time, want to alarm our allies or read about it in the papers. Anything we learn we will pass along. We will also respond as best we can to any requests you have for information.”

  “What about the military?” Garrett asked.

  “What do you mean?” Watson replied.

  “Any military response to this would normally come from the U.S. Special Operations Command. I know the security procedures and isolation protocols that would accompany such a mission tasking, and they’re pretty good. But if word gets to these bomb stealers that there is a special operations in the works, it will make everyone’s job that much harder. We have to assume that they will be watching for indicators. We have a lot of ship and aircraft movements in the Persian Gulf due to the business with Iraq. But military activity in the northern Arabian Sea or the Gulf of Oman could tip them off.”

  Watson pursed his lips. “This is a little out of my area, but I can only think that somewhere along the line, we will have to look at military and special-operations options. To my knowledge, this has not yet happened. Will it happen? Probably. This is very serious business, and I can’t help but think the President will use every means within his power to resolve this threat. But I will pass it along that we must handle any prepositioning of assets with care.” He took out a small notebook and made an entry. “Let’s get back to my charter and what I can do for you. You will have the full resources of the CIA, the DIA, the NRO, and the Homeland Security Department available to you. If you want, I will request the information, collect it, sanitize it, and send it along to you. Everything will be passed along through a corporate shell organization so there is no risk of attribution. I understand that you have Dodds LeMaster on your team, is that right?”

  “We do,” answered Steven.

  “Good. That makes it easier. I have a technician on the other aircraft who could brief you, but I don’t think that will be necessary. I have two small suitcases of equipment for you to take back with you. I’m not a tech, but as I understand it, one case contains some special modems and interface equipment that will make data transfer quicker and more secure. If there’s a problem”—he handed them a card—“just have LeMaster give us a call.” He smiled. “More probably, if my comm techs have a problem, I should have them call LeMaster.” He opened his hands on the table to signal he was finished.

  “That’s it?” Steven said with a half smile.

  “That’s it—for now.” Then Watson turned serious. “If it comes to an actual mission tasking, and you move on this, we could possibly provide some operational support. But then, given the nature of your organization, I can’t presume or promise anything. I can only guess there will be limited assistance as long as it can be provided with total deniability. With that said, good luck.”

  Watson shook hands with Garrett and Janet, and Steven ushered him to the boarding stairs and down to the tarmac. They walked slowly to Watson’s Gulfstream.

  “Is it this hot in Hawaii?”

  “Not this bad, b
ut it can get warm. Thank you for coming, sir, and for your candor.”

  “Don’t mention it. Who knows; we may be working together on this one.” Watson took what looked like two aluminum camera cases from a man and passed them to Steven. He took them without comment. “One of the cases has the special modems and encryption equipment. The other has nuclear metering devices. They are designed to detect low-level alpha and gamma emissions. We got them from the Nuclear Emergency Search Teams, or NESTs. I’ve been told not to expect too much from them, but if the weapons are not in their metal casings, they can detect trace products from the decay of the nuclear cores. If you or LeMaster have any questions about the equipment, I will have a cleared and witting nuclear expert available to answer any questions.

  “And one more thing,” Watson continued. He was now talking to a fellow intelligence professional, a colleague, and his whole demeanor seemed to change. He became conspiratorial; once again, they were spies. “I don’t see any problems with information and data transfer. If it comes to operational and tactical support, well, I think you and I can work through that. From my end there will be no bullshit. A straight yes, we can, or no, we can’t.” Steven acknowledged this. “But security is and always will be a problem. Armand will have to take this to Tad Coleson at the Bureau.” Steven gave him a blank stare. “I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not like the old days, at least not quite. Coleson and Armand have a good understanding. Nine-eleven has made all the empire builders a little more accommodating. We feel that if we don’t tell the Bureau, there’s a fair chance they will find out about you somewhere along the line. Everyone’s out looking for terrorists, and you do have a pretty suspicious operation. Armand feels that if we bring Coleson in and let him provide the liaison, then we will have put the FBI in check. They are also in a position to head off other agencies that may come nosing around. There is always a risk with the FBI, but I think it’s reasonable.” He gave Steven a furtive grin. “And some of them, only a few, mind you, are a lot smarter than they used to be.”