Mission Compromised

by Oliver North

And he would invariably reply, “If this is all I get to eat, who wants to live any longer?” The humor she initially found in this line was very short-lived.

  Knowing that weather or mechanical problems could cancel her flight, Newman flipped over his wife's note and wrote,

  R—Couldn't get out of the White House assignment. Don't have an office phone number yet. Will leave a message on your pager when I know what it is. Will probably be late. Don't wait up. Love, P. J.

  He left the note on her dresser, wondering as he did so why he even bothered.

  After checking his outfit in the mirror, Newman set the security alarm, locked up the house, and eased his car down the driveway onto the street. It was still raining hard, and as he was wondering half aloud if it was going to change to snow, he noticed the blue car easing away from the curb nearly a block away. It followed him onto Route 50 as he headed back into Washington, but stayed a respectable ten to twenty car lengths back all the way into the city. Newman took the E-Street Expressway off the Roosevelt Bridge and soon pulled up to the South West Gate on West Executive Avenue.

  A uniformed Secret Service officer came out from the guard booth as he pulled his Tahoe up to the gate. Newman rolled down the window and showed the officer his new White House ID and the “West Exec” parking pass. The guard checked the ID, the parking pass, the car's license, and said, “You're Space 73, Mr. Newman. It's about halfway up on the left, just past the OEOB entrance.”

  “OEOB?”

  “Old Executive Office Building.”

  Newman nodded, wondering what else he needed to know just to work here every day. One thing he had just learned was that the White House Access System computers somewhere in the OEOB had already been updated to reflect his new status. He had been “Major Newman” the first time he'd entered the eighteen-acre White House complex that morning. Now he was “Mr. Newman.”

  As he pulled into the numbered space, he noticed that the dark-blue Chrysler hadn't pulled into the gate behind him. Newman couldn't see it turn north on 17th and pull into the garage beneath the modern, red brick façade of the New Executive Office Building, just across Pennsylvania Avenue from the White House.

  As he entered the green-canopied West Wing entrance, the civilianclad Marine removed his raincoat and walked up to the Secret Service agent who was seated at a desk just inside the door. Before he could even take out his White House ID, the agent said, “Dr. Harrod will see you in the Situation Room, Mr. Newman.”

  Instead of going up the stairs to the National Security Advisor's office where he had been earlier in the day, Newman turned right, down a corridor past the White House Mess—“the most exclusive restaurant in Washington”—and walked up to a massive wooden door at the end of the hallway. Before he could slide his White House pass through the card reader and put his forehead up against the optical scanner, he heard the metallic click of the electronic lock being opened. Somewhere above him there was a camera he couldn't see. And at someplace he didn't know, a person he'd probably never meet already knew who he was—and that he was expected. It made Newman vaguely uneasy.

  A cheerful young man greeted him enthusiastically as he entered. “Good afternoon, Mr. Newman. I'm Specialist Jonathan Yardley; welcome to the Situation Room. Dr. Harrod's in the conference room on the phone with the President. He'll signal us when it's time for you to go in.” Yardley gestured to two lights—one green, the other red—above a door in front of them. The red light was illuminated.

  “While we're waiting, why don't I show you around?” And without waiting for an answer, the younger man started walking Newman around and introducing him to the five men and two women on duty. The facility was smaller than Newman had thought it would be, but it looked for all intents and purposes like any other headquarters operations center—except that everyone was in civilian clothes.

  “This is the second watch. We have five watch sections, seven duty officers, and a senior watch officer for each. I'm the SWO for this watch. Unless there's a major crisis, we rotate the watch every eight hours. Most of us are warrant officers in the military, but some are detailed here from the CIA, NSA, State Department, FBI, Treasury, and Department of Energy. Everyone here has clearances for every security compartment. And nearly all of us have been here for ten years or more.”

  There was a quiet hum of activity. Newman noticed that the phones chirped instead of ringing, and that everyone had a computer console in a small carrel. He also saw that the phones didn't have standard dial pads; rather, the dial pad was on the computer screen. Each screen had rows of colored boxes with labels: POTUS, FLOTUS, VPOTUS, STATE, OSD, DCI, NMCC, FBI OPS, JUSTICE, TREASURY, and COAST GUARD. Newman was surprised to note that one of the boxes was labeled: UN OPS CTR.

  Yardley continued, “Every department and agency has its own watch center. We can connect with any one of them or contact them all simultaneously in the event of a crisis. Over here,” Yardley gestured to a carrel in the corner, “we're having WHCA”—he pronounced it wha-cah—“install a monitoring system for the watch officer who will be keeping track of you.”

  “What's WHCA?” Newman asked.

  “Sorry,” responded Yardley. “We get so used to the local lingo, we sometimes forget that not everybody knows it. WHCA stands for the White House Communications Agency. You never hear about it, even though more than five hundred people are assigned to it—mostly from the Air Force and Army—though there are a few Marines, I think. WHCA is responsible for all presidential communications, both secure and unclassified. They handle all of the encryption systems, make sure that the President can launch or stop a nuclear war, and generally install and maintain everything from computers to telephones to secure video links so that the President can be in touch with anyone, anywhere, anytime.”

  Before Newman could ask what “keeping track” of him meant, there was an electronic ping and Yardley looked toward the lights over the conference room door. The green light had come on. “It looks like the National Security Advisor is ready for you now. We don't want to keep the doctor waiting, do we?”

  “No, I suppose not,” Newman muttered, wanting to ask a litany of questions but knowing that they'd have to wait.

  “Well, welcome aboard and good luck,” said the loquacious watch officer, holding out his hand. And then as Newman shook it, “I sure hope you'll fare better than your predecessor.”

  Taken aback, Newman started to ask what had happened to his predecessor when the conference room door swung open and Jabba the Hutt bellowed, “I can't wait all day, Newman. What's going on here?”

  It occurred to Newman that it was an entirely appropriate question.

  MASSACRE

  IN MOGADISHU

  CHAPTER TWO

  Situation Room

  ________________________________________

  The White House

  Washington, D.C.

  Tuesday, 29 November 1994

  1510 Hours, Local

  Nice of you to make it, Newman,” Dr. Harrod said sarcastically. His reprimand was loud enough for the whole staff to hear it. “It might occur to you that I don't have time for you to socialize with these people—they have work to do, and so do I.” Newman's face flushed with embarrassment, and as he entered the conference room, he was aware that Yardley and all of his situation room personnel had their eyes riveted on him.

  The National Security Advisor was in his shirtsleeves, his suit coat draped over one of the twenty or so chairs in the room where presidents had been meeting with their most trusted advisors since Dwight David Eisenhower. It was, Newman observed, a very small room for so many big decisions.

  As they moved into the wood-paneled conference room, Harrod closed the door behind them and said, “Those are better clothes. Now all you need is hair.” Harrod laughed at his own little joke. Newman did not.

  “Sit down.” Newman sat, taking a seat across the smooth, polished mahogany table from Harrod—unaware that the Director of Central Intelligence usually occupied the cha
ir that he had chosen during meetings of the National Security Council. On the table was a file folder with a green-bordered cover sheet. Although it was upside down from where he sat, Newman could read the bold print:

  TOP SECRET

  CODEWORD ACCESS REQUIRED

  EYES ONLY FOR THE PRESIDENT

  Harrod, still standing, looked totally unkempt. His tie had been loosened to keep from choking his fat neck, but it still ended abruptly a good four inches above his belt. The National Security Advisor's considerable paunch made the gap between the buttons on his shirt front swell into little ovals, and it seemed to Newman that they were about to pop. And despite the November weather and cool temperature in the room, Harrod's shirt was sweat-soaked beneath his arms. Lighting a cigar, he sat down, shoved several loose pages of paper into the file folder, and looked up at the Marine. “I just got off the phone with the President. He's authorized me to proceed. You are now officially the director of the Special Projects office. I'll give you a list of who can know about this assignment; it'll be short. As far as anyone else is concerned, you're a military assistant to the National Security Advisor. Understood?”

  “No, Dr. Harrod, it's not understood. Nor do I understand why I was followed home and then back here by a dark-blue, late-model Chrysler with smoked-glass windows, more antennas than a cell-phone tower, and a D.C. license, ISL-355.”

  “Very good, Newman. I'm glad you noticed. I had you followed. The men in that car will very shortly be working for you. I had you tailed for three reasons. First, to make sure that you didn't go running back to the Marines to whine about this assignment; second, it's good training for them; and third, to see how observant you are. You passed. They failed.”

  “Exactly what is this job, Dr. Harrod?” Newman asked. There was still anger in his voice.

  “Relax, Mr. Newman. This is going to take a few minutes. After I'm finished you can ask all the questions you want. Then I'll take you over to the OEOB, show you your office, and introduce you to your new colleagues.

  “You may not want to be here, Newman, but you're here for a reason. Even though you only got your orders last Friday to report to the NSC, you were very carefully selected. You're here because of what happened in Mogadishu, Somalia, in October of last year.” At that, Harrod paused, for Newman reacted just the way he expected—as if he had been struck—though the Marine said nothing.

  Quieter, in a whisper that he substituted for sympathy and sincerity, Harrod continued. “I know that your brother was one of those Army Rangers who were killed. I'm sorry. It never should have happened.” Harrod paused again.

  Harrod had brought up images and feelings that Newman had tried to repress for more than a year. He moistened his lips but said nothing. His new boss continued. “You're here because we want to make sure that what happened to your brother James never happens again. The President is adamant that those who did it be appropriately punished. We think that you're the right person to make sure that Mohammed Farrah Aidid never commits another atrocity and that he becomes an example to the entire world of what happens to those who kill Americans and UN peacekeepers.” Harrod waited to let his words sink in.

  The Marine stared hard at the polished tabletop, struggling for control and adamant that this civilian not see his emotion. It seemed awkward to hear his brother called James. Newman knew his younger brother as Jimmy and then Jim. His brother—not quite four years his junior—had been buried in Arlington Cemetery for a little more than a year.

  Peter Newman recalled those events and felt, ironically, that the man responsible for sending his only brother to his death was only one floor above, in the Oval Office. And now Newman would be working for him.

  Harrod flicked the ash off his cigar and watched to see if he had wrung any emotion out of the Marine. Only a brief glistening in his eyes betrayed any feelings he'd had over the events of last year. And Newman blinked a few times more than usual. But other than that, Harrod couldn't tell whether he was getting through to the Marine or not—or even how much the Marine cared about his brother.

  Harrod was going to change the subject, but the interview was interrupted by a beeping from his pager. “Excuse me, Newman. I've gotta take this call.” He went to the other end of the room and punched one of the numbers listed in the phone's speed-dial list. He droned on for several minutes, his voice just low enough for Newman not to hear. But it didn't matter. The Marine's thoughts were elsewhere.

  If anything, Peter Newman was more proud of Captain James Bedford Newman, U.S. Army, West Point class of '84, than he was of his own military résumé. His brother had indeed been a Ranger, just as Harrod said. But in 1992, after serving in Desert Storm, the soft-spoken, lanky officer with the big shoulders and even bigger smile had quietly volunteered for Delta Force, the Army's elite, supersecret, counterterrorist outfit. The “Dreaded-D,” based at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, selected only the best for its ranks. After months of harsh, grueling training, during which all but 9 of the 103 soldiers in his class dropped out, Captain Jim Newman became a Delta Force team leader. And little more than a year later, he was dead—killed on the night of October 3, 1993, during the bloodiest twenty-four hours of combat that the U.S. military had experienced since the Vietnam War.

  The thirty-three-year-old officer had been part of a specially organized unit comprised of more than 450 Rangers from Fort Benning, Georgia; Newman's Delta Force Squadron from Fort Bragg, North Carolina; Navy SEALs out of Norfolk, Virginia; USAF para-rescue jumpers (PJs); and airmen of the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment—the “Night Stalkers.”

  Dubbed “Task Force Ranger” by the Pentagon, this extraordinary group of highly trained specialists had been secretly dispatched to war-torn Mogadishu, Somalia, in August 1993. Their mission: to capture or kill the murderous Somali warlord Mohammed Farrah Aidid, or, failing that, to disable his brutal Somalia National Alliance (SNA). In his bid for power, General Aidid had declared war on anyone and everyone and didn't care that he was now fighting the most powerful nation on earth.

  When Captain Jim Newman and his Delta operators had deployed, he and all those with him were confident that they would deal with this petty, tinhorn despot in short order. It had all seemed so easy when they arrived at the sunbaked airport beside the Indian Ocean, less than 250 miles north of the equator. But when they landed and the airplane's door opened, the rush of hot air—literally like an oven—seemed to suck their breath away.

  And from then on, it only got worse. Intelligence on Aidid's whereabouts and those of his key lieutenants was as scarce as a cold drink of water. The CIA and the Army's Intelligence Support Activity, called “ISA” by the Delta shooters, had a presence in Mogadishu, but they weren't located at the airport with Task Force Ranger. Instead, they were at the bombed-out, windowless, and vandalized former residence of the U.S. ambassador.

  In his letters to his older brother back home, Jim Newman had written that there were other problems as well—the kind of problems that both Newman boys had learned to avoid at their respective service academies. In one of his early missives, shortly after arriving in Mogadishu, Jim had written, “Get this. We're the only outfit on the ground in Somalia that reports directly to U. S. command authority. All the other military units here report to the UN. God help us if we ever need real backup. I wonder if anyone back there remembers those lessons from Clausewitz on unity of command!” In the aftermath, Peter Newman would re-read his brother's words and wonder if anyone in Washington had had the same misgivings.

  In his last note to his brother, written on September 20, Jim Newman had shared more of his concerns and uncertainties than ever before. Newman kept the letter in a folder in his desk.

  Dear Pete,

  Greetings once again from the armpit of Africa. They are calling this mission “Operation Gothic Serpent.” It's appropriate because this guy Aidid really is a snake. He not only has the home-field advantage, but he's getting outside help. Our intel guys say that Aidid is getting a big b
oost from a Saudi exile named Osama bin Laden. It looks as though this guy bin Laden has used his own considerable bankroll to send in a bunch of his hired guns, who have been itching for a fight ever since the Soviets pulled out of Afghanistan. The ISA guys say that bin Laden's thugs are the ones who taught the Somalis how to tinker with the fuse on an RPG so that it can be used to shoot down helicopters. It has certainly made life very interesting for all of us.

  Last week the blue bonnets at the UN really botched one up big-time. Somebody told 'em that Aidid was holding a big powwow downtown, so the UN—that's right, the UN—sent six gunships in to take the building apart with TOWs and Hellfire missiles. Killed about a dozen of Aidid's cronies, but the boss was a no-show.

  Aidid and this Osama guy have now declared that it's payback time and they have their “technicals”—Somalis in Toyota pickup trucks with .50-cal machine guns in the back—racing around town shooting at anything with a UN or U.S. flag As if that wasn't bad enough, when the UN “peacekeepers” from Saudi Arabia, Pakistan, and Malaysia aren't shooting at Somalis, they are holding intramural fire fights with each other. Our boss has asked for some armor to help get things back under control, and your Marines have some offshore, but apparently nobody at the Pentagon's puzzle palace wants to tell the folks at 1600 PA Ave. that this little nation-building exercise is coming unraveled.

  That's it from the “war is hell” and the “disasters-in-progress” departments. Give Rachel my love. Tell Mom and Dad when you talk to them that little Jimmy is doing just fine and that, in exchange for two camels and a goat, I have purchased eleven beautiful Somali wives to look after me in my old age.

  He had signed it “Rangers lead the way. Love, Jim. “And then at the very bottom of the page, he had penned: “P.S. Tell Mom and our sister that I am saying my prayers!”