The Mercenary Option

by Dick Couch

  “Oh, wonderful,” Garrett replied.

  Just after dark, a C-130J Lockheed Hercules landed and was given permission to taxi to the hangar. The Gulfstream had gone, but the 130 was much too large for the hangar. The aircraft crept up to the hangar doors, neatly pirouetted, and dropped her stern ramp. A forklift took the paletted gear quickly aboard, and the load master secured it to the deck with chains and nylon cargo nets. Then two white comm vans drove up the ramp and into the cargo bay of the big Hercules. Finally the Gurkhas filed aboard and sat in two rows along each side of the fuselage on canvas bench-seats. Steven sat at the wheel of the lead van, and Garrett joined him in the front passenger seat. Janet and Dodds LeMaster buckled themselves into the captain’s chairs at the consoles in the rear of the van. After they reached cruise altitude, Garrett left the van, found Bijay, and strapped himself in beside him. The rough ride, the uncomfortable seats, noise, and the smell of hydraulic fluid brought back a flood of nostalgia and anticipation. In a few minutes he nodded off to sleep like the rest of the Gurkhas. The big aircraft was well under her rated payload of thirty-six thousand pounds and just under her three-thousand-mile range as they continued west to their destination.

  Late Tuesday morning, December 31,

  Air Force One

  President Bill St. Claire sat in a padded leather armchair on Air Force One, on his way to a fund-raising luncheon in Chicago. He had almost canceled the appearance, given the breaking crisis, but with a covert operation in the offing, he was advised not to deviate from his planned itinerary. He recalled that Jimmy Carter had done the same thing on the eve of Desert One. The man who gave that advice was seated across the low table from him, carefully stirring his tea. He had slipped aboard the President’s plane unnoticed by the accompanying press pool.

  “So they are on the move, and you feel the two weapons are headed for Afghanistan?”

  “I do. The two vehicles our friends from Hawaii tracked into central Iran most certainly brought the weapons out of Pakistan. We have them moving past Kerman and heading toward the Afghan border, probably for a crossing somewhere west or southwest of Herat.”

  The President turned and looked down on the snow-brushed cornfields of Ohio. “What do you recommend, Armand?”

  “I recommend we let Joe Simpson and his people have a crack at this one.”

  “You think this is the best option?”

  “I do. There is a great deal to recommend their involvement. I have been given a rough outline of their plan, and it looks promising. They are our only covert option with non-attribution. The IFOR can be in position to intercept the weapons as quickly as any of our special-operations forces, and I think they have the best chance of doing the job quietly.”

  The whole world was focused on Saddam and Iraq, and their reluctant European allies. St. Claire could only picture the headlines if word of this got out. It would certainly be a blessing for Saddam if attention were somehow diverted away from Iraq. “What’s Barbata say?”

  “He reluctantly agreed, although he was quick to point out that his Special Forces and SEALs are straining at their leashes. I feel that in releasing the IFOR, this also gives us a chance to better position our special-operations elements in the mountain passes should Khalib and his weapons make it across the border and into Afghanistan. We’re talking nuclear weapons, and we have to use every available means to stop them.”

  “Then why not send in a Tomahawk and simply erase the two vans while we have them in the desert?”

  “We need to do two things, Mr. President. We need to eliminate the weapons as a threat, and we need to account for the weapons. We need confirmation. Our sources in Pakistan, now official, tell us that the two missing weapons were of two different types, one a uranium weapon and the other a plutonium weapon. We know that the two engineers still missing from the Kahuta weapons facility could arm either weapon.”

  “Any idea why they took one of each?”

  Armand Grummell gave an imperceptible shrug of his shoulders. “There’s no way of knowing at this juncture. It may have been by design, or perhaps it was by chance when they removed the weapons from the storage area. Either way, both need to be found and recovered. There is no other alternative. If we simply destroy the two vehicles, we do neither. And there is one other thing we should consider.”

  “And that is?”

  “The pipeline crews. Until those weapons are accounted for, it may be advisable to at least put them on some kind of security alert.”

  “Yes,” the President replied, “but those bombs are a long way from Afghanistan and the pipeline.”

  “Sir, we think they are a long way from the pipeline, but we’re not one-hundred percent sure. We have, however, been given good reason to believe that nuclear weapons are now targeted at Americans. It’s something to consider.”

  Bill St. Claire thought about this. What his DCI was saying, though it had nothing to do with his primary duty of reporting intelligence to the executive branch, was, “God help you, Mr. President, if this thing gets out of hand and you knew American citizens were at risk.” Bill St. Claire again stared out the window, but no answers were forthcoming in the farmlands of northern Ohio. After several minutes, he turned back to Armand Grummell.

  “I’ll have Tony deploy his special-operations people along the Afghan border as a contingency. For now, a heightened state of alert should be enough for the pipeline crews. Let’s see what Simpson’s folks can do.” The President hesitated, then added, “Get this done, Armand. We’ll not be free to take any action in Iraq until this is resolved.”

  Late Wednesday afternoon, January 1, 2003,

  Diego Garcia

  The C-130J set down just before sundown and taxied off to a deserted piece of hardstand served by two prefab plywood buildings. Waiting for them was another C-130J and two lone figures. The temperature was still over ninety degrees, and the southeast trade winds blew at a steady fifteen knots. Diego Garcia is a seventeen-square-mile speck of land located seven degrees south of the equator in the middle of the Indian Ocean. One of the fifty-two islands in the Chagos Archipelago, it is owned by Great Britain and populated by the American military. It is home to the fleet of maritime pre-positioned ships, stationed there to support a major conflict in the Middle East and serve as a base for B-52 and B-1 bombers and their aerial tanker fleet. Diego Garcia is the base from which America is able to project its military might into the Middle East and South Asia. It is a busy place. There was enough military activity in and around the island atoll for a pair of unmarked C-130s parked at the end of a remote taxiway to go unnoticed.

  As soon as the rear ramp was partially down, a file of Gurkhas began to drop to the tarmac and jog into one of the buildings. Others remained to unload the equipment pallets. Steven, Garrett, Dodds LeMaster, and Janet Brisco deplaned right after the Gurkhas. Janet led them from the aircraft. At this phase of the operation, she was clearly in charge. Judy Burks and Bill Owens waited at the edge of the hardstand.

  “You got the word that we have the green light?” Janet said to Owens, not wasting time with pleasantries or waiting for a reply. “Are you ready in all respects?”

  “The vehicles are aboard the aircraft, gassed up and ready to go. The clothing and gear you specified are waiting for the insertion team inside that building.”

  “The pilots?”

  “They’re in the other building, standing by for their mission briefing.”

  Brisco carried a fat leather briefcase in one hand and had a thick sheaf of maps in the other. “Steven and I will brief the pilots,” she said to Garrett. “You and Bijay get your troops ready to go. We’ll muster them under the wing of the ready aircraft. I want you away within the hour. Dodds, get the comm vans unloaded and set up. I want to be operational as soon as the team is airborne.” Then, noticing Judy Burks for the first time, “And who in the hell are you?”

  “Ah, Janet, this is Judy Burks. She is our government liaison,” Garrett replied.

 
; “Oh, right,” Brisco replied dubiously. “Glad to meet you.”

  “Judy arranged for our flight clearances and the use of these buildings,” Garrett continued. “She will also see that we get the support and privacy we need from the island commander, and that no one will ask questions about why we’re here. If you need anything while you’re here, Judy will see to it.”

  Brisco gave Garrett an uncertain look. “Okay, thanks. Judy, we’ll talk later. Right now, I have a mission to launch. Let’s move, people.” With that, she strode off to brief the pilots for the operation. Steven Fagan almost had to jog to keep up with her.

  “How about you, sailor?” Judy said after the others had left. “Is there anything you need?”

  “Well, I’m sure there is, but we probably don’t have enough time to properly attend to it. Maybe on the return trip.”

  “I assume I shouldn’t ask where you’re going. I know it’s probably going to be dangerous. You have the same goofy look on your face as the little guys that piled off that airplane.”

  “You assume right.”

  “Well then, tell me about that Amazon you flew in with. Is she the boss?”

  “She is for now, absolutely. We have a special-operations tasking, and she is the mission planner. She will also be our operational control while we’re in the field. She won’t make the tactical calls, but she will decide everything else. She’s also the best. I want you to look after her, and if need be, to stay out of her way.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Judy replied. “That’s one intimidating lady.”

  Inside, twelve of the Gurkhas selected for the insertion team were changing clothes. A few were changing into the dress of mountain tribesmen, but most of them were donning military uniforms. Garrett joined them and quickly switched into tan slacks, desert boots, and a bush coat. A slouch hat completed the look. Bill Owens sat at a table with a file box and a checklist. Each Gurkha received money, a gold chain for barter, and an Iranian national identity card. There were military IDs for the soldiers, confirming them as draftees in the Islamic Iranian Ground Forces, commonly known as the Iranian Army. Garrett received a full set of documents identifying him as a Dutch mining engineer on contract with a French minerals exploration firm. There was man sitting by himself in the corner, dressed much like Garrett. He watched all this activity with a detached amusement. Garrett walked over to him.

  “You must be our weapons expert.”

  The man rose and extended his hand. “Frederick Janos. Pleased to meet you, Mr….”

  Garrett looked at his passport with its current Iranian visa. “Raemacher. Hans Raemacher. Are you ready to go?”

  Janos was a South African expatriate who had worked in that nation’s uranium mining industry. He had consulted with a number of countries, not always legally, for the procurement of fissionable materials to construct nuclear weapons. He was known to have worked with the Israelis, and they had given a good opinion of him. Janos was a bomb expert for hire—a nuclear soldier of fortune; he would work for anyone for a fee. This job would be his last. He had reached an agreement with Steven Fagan that would make him wealthy enough to retire. His retirement was part of the contract. No one associated with IFOR wanted him traveling about with that much knowledge of their operations. Janos pointed to a kit bag and backpack next to his chair.

  “Everything I need is in there,” he replied. He had aperpetual smile and spoke with a British-Afrikaners accent. “You’re not going to get me killed on this little venture, are you?”

  “I’ll try not to. It’s a tough piece of work, but we have a good plan and a good crew.”

  “I should say. These wogs you have here are a rugged-looking lot.”

  Garrett’s expression became cold. “They’re much more than that, and if you ever refer to them as wogs again, you just may not live to enjoy that fat fee you’re being paid. We clear on that?”

  “Too right, mate. How soon do we leave?”

  Garrett glanced at his watch. “Within the half hour.”

  In the next building, Janet Brisco was briefing the pilots. Both were veterans of the Air Force 1st Special Operations Wing, and both had flown missions similar to this when they were on active duty. They had been flying relief supplies into Somalia and the Sudan until just a few days ago. Steven Fagan had asked certain pilots flying for Joseph Simpson Jr. Foundation if they would be interested in work that involved flying something other than food and generators—work that had an element of danger but paid a great deal more. They had responded like bird dogs when you take a shotgun down from the gun rack. These were experienced special-operations pilots, and they loved a good challenge. One of them had once been briefed by Brisco when they were both in uniform, but he had the good sense not to bring it up. The mission would not be without risk, and they would earn their generous bonus. But in keeping with the breed, it was the prospect of a difficult mission that had them sitting in on this briefing.

  “What if we go down?” one of the flyers asked.

  “Standard escape-and-evasion procedures. The other C-130 will be standing by with an armed reaction team. The beacons in your survival radios will allow us to find you, and I can assure you that we will come. There are two extended-range H-60s headed for Herat on a humanitarian mission, and they will remain there on standby for combat search and rescue.”

  “And if we get picked up by the locals?”

  “We’ll try to buy you back. The official presence there is the Pasdaran, along with local constabulary. We have identified no regular army units along your flight path. There are, however, bandits and drug smugglers. If you can be bought, we’ll buy you. If not, you can kiss your sorry ass good-bye.” Both pilots and the three aircrewmen chuckled. “Your best way home is to keep those beacons active. Any more questions?” There were none. “Then let’s get that bird in the air. We’re wasting darkness. I want that aircraft in Afghan airspace before the sun comes up.”

  The aircrew filed out and boarded the plane. The pilots went straight to the cockpit; the aircraft had already been preflighted. Strapped to the deck of the big Hercules were four Russian UAZ-469 jeeps in Iranian army dress, loaded and fueled. The vehicles were there due to the foresight of Steven Fagan and the procuring genius of Bill Owens. While the pilots and crewmen made the final checks, the Gurkhas stood in formation under the wing, illuminated by halogen lights from the buildings and the afterglow of the sunset. There were an even dozen of them, not counting Bijay, eight attired as Iranian Army regulars, the other four, including Bijay, in baggy trousers, tattered shirts, and mountain headdresses. No element of the Islamic Iranian Ground Force would be moving in this region without guides and baggage handlers. Only a close inspection would reveal that the soldiers were much better armed than the average Iranian infantryman, and that the AK-47s of the irregulars were in pristine condition. Garrett and Bijay quickly and professionally inspected them, more for the men than their two leaders; it was a formality always observed before going into combat. When they were finished, Bijay called them to attention and saluted.

  “Gurkhali ayo!” he called to them.

  “GURKHALI AYO!” they roared. The twelve double-timed to the rear of the aircraft and filed aboard. The other Gurkhas watched them in envious silence. Janet Brisco stood to one side observing all this, then turned a fierce glare to Bijay and Garrett.

  “You take care of my boys, hear me? If anything happens to them, you will answer to me personally.”

  Bijay inclined his head in a formal gesture, straightened, then boarded the C-130. If he felt any rancor that a mere woman should remind a British Gurkha warrant officer to take care of his men, he was careful not to let it show. Garrett saluted Brisco, giving her a broad grin, then turned and walked over to where Judy waited.

  “If all goes well, I’ll see you in a few days.”

  “And if it doesn’t?”

  He shrugged. “Well, then thanks for coming all this way to see me off.”

  “This is the firs
t time I’ve ever seen a man off to war,” she replied, taking his hand in both of hers. “And I don’t really even know where you’re going.”

  Garrett regarded her. “There’s no real need for you to know. But you can be sure that it is important—very important.”

  “Guess there’s not much to say, then. Take care of yourself. I’m very selfish; I want you back.”

  Suddenly he took her in his arms, just as the port out-board Allison AE2100D3 turbofan began to spool up. “Look, this is a hell of a way to start the new year, but I will be careful, and I will see you in a few days. And, if it means anything to you, this is the first time I’ve ever climbed on a mission bird knowing there was someone waiting who cared.” He kissed her tenderly and stepped back, again smiling broadly. “You are a piece of work, Judy Burks.”

  “Gee, thanks. You say the sweetest things.” He turned to go as she yelled over the building whine of the turbine, “And yes, it means a great deal to me!”

  Garrett leaped up to the tail ramp, waved, and was gone. The ramp and tail cargo door ground shut with finality. The big Hercules began to taxi as soon as the fourth engine reached RPM. Janet and Judy watched as it turned for the main taxiway. The C-130’s short-field takeoff and landing capabilities would not be needed on run-ways that catered to loaded B-52s. It paused briefly at the head of the active runway, then began to accelerate with a controlled turbine shriek. Less than halfway down the strip, the big bird lifted and banked gracefully toward the northwest and into the night.

  “Think they’ll be all right?”

  “Huh? Oh, I think so.” Brisco had been lost in thought. Already she had begun to turn over in her mind just a few of the dozens of details and considerations that would consume her waking hours until the mission was complete. “It’s a clear objective, and we have a very workable plan. Those are a very capable group of guys—as good as any I’ve seen.” Then she suddenly focused on Judy, as if seeing her for the first time. She immediately read the concern on her face. “I’ll bet that man of yours didn’t tell you what all this fuss was about, did he?”