by Oliver North
Harrod turned on the EL-3 and heard the metallic ping as the device engaged to make their conversation indecipherable. The Russian began to speak quickly, and Harrod could tell by his voice that he was excited. “My guy called me by satellite phone when I was on the plane to New York. He had anticipated our scenario and had already done the prelims for what we wanted to know.
“He says that he told Kamil that he was connected to the CIA through one of his contacts—me, but he didn't tell him where I work—and that he could see if the CIA was interested. Kamil seemed overjoyed at that. Apparently he doesn't hate ‘the great Satan’ enough to not want to enjoy its riches.”
“Yeah, aren't convictions wonderful?” Harrod said wryly. “What did your operative tell him?”
“He said that he would start the ball rolling and see what could be done. And he told him that in the meantime, he wanted Kamil to cut a check for 150 million Swiss francs for those warheads. That way he keeps his credibility alive—as well as his own rear.” Komulakov had told Harrod earlier about the warheads but had convinced the National Security Advisor that they were dummies and were just being used by his agent to gain Kamil's confidence.
What Komulakov specifically did not tell Harrod was that he had instructed Dotensk to expedite the delivery of the warheads because of the information Kamil had passed along about the meeting that was to take place on March 6. Komulakov wanted to make sure that his portion of the 150 million was safely in his Swiss bank account before Osama bin Laden showed up in Iraq.
“Did your man ask Kamil what he had to offer the CIA in return?” asked Harrod.
“As a matter of fact, he did. Kamil told him that on March 6 Saddam and a bunch of his cronies are meeting at the presidential palace in Tikrit. There are going to be other notables there who are also on our short list of ‘lawbreakers.’ And there is supposed to be one very special guest attending in whom I know you will have great interest. I'll send you a secure message in the morning with the full details.
“But the most important reason for this call, my dear Simon,” the general said, “is that I think that we should change the mission for our International Sanctions Enforcement Group and your little Special Projects Office.”
“What do you mean?”
“Send them to Iraq instead of Somalia,” Komulakov suggested. “The SG is having some second thoughts about the Somalia mission anyhow. He doesn't want to be embarrassed again, as he was when the U.S. Rangers and UN peacekeepers were killed in Mogadishu in '93.”
“Hmm … I think our president might have some second thoughts about that himself. But can we pull this one off so quickly?” Harrod asked. “I mean, this team has been training to go into Africa, not Iraq.”
“Simon, don't worry. Leave the military questions to me—I know that's not your specialty. In some ways it will be easier than the Africa assignment. The U.S. and Britain are already doing flights over Iraq, and the infiltration can be worked out a lot better with that cover. Besides, we'll have the element of surprise. Hussein Kamil says that he's going to be there at the meeting to gather information for his new benefactors—the CIA. But I haven't told the CIA about this … yet. Our mission will have the element of surprise.”
“How do you figure?”
“Kamil will be there. He won't be expecting an attack because he'll think the CIA wants him back alive to spill his guts about his infamous poppa-in-law. And that means that the Iraqi security services won't be as alert as they otherwise might be. This is perfect.”
“That's pretty good,” Harrod chuckled. “But maybe we do want to keep him alive. If he defects, it'll look good in the President's news conferences if we can parade him or his information to show how aggressive we are at fighting international terrorism and dictatorships.”
“I'm not sure that we need his information,” the general said. “I think that the Mossad, CIA, and the other intelligence reports that we are receiving will be more reliable. Can you imagine the husband of the daughter of Saddam burning all bridges in getting out? Is she that estranged from her father or that much in love with this guy she married? He might want to go back some day, so he's not likely to give us stuff we don't already know, and we already know a lot,” said General Komulakov.
“About that list you're going to have to me by morning … is Aidid on it? Is he going to be at Saddam's little party?” Harrod asked.
“No … why?”
“Then put his name on the list.”
“I don't understand.”
Harrod explained, “I've got Newman hooked on going after Aidid as vengeance for his brother's death.”
“Ah, I see. If Aidid's going to be one of the players at the meeting in Iraq—”
“Bingo,” Harrod interrupted. “Put Aidid's name on that list. It'll be easier to sell a change in the mission to Newman. And I need Newman totally psyched for this mission so the rest of the team will be. They'll follow him into hell with just a wink from Newman … but if they sense he's not sure of the mission …”
“All right. Aidid is on the list. Anything else?”
“I'll let you know in the morning.”
Office of the National Security Advisor
________________________________________
The White House
Washington, D.C.
Saturday, 18 February 1995
0810 Hours, Local
Jonathan Yardley, the senior watch officer for the Situation Room, had called Newman at 0500 hours sharp. Yardley told him that Dr. Harrod wanted him to be in his office at 0730 hours for an urgent meeting. “Are you sure that he didn't say ‘7:30 A.M.’?” Newman kidded Yardley, knowing Harrod's abhorrence of military expressions.
“As a matter of fact, sir, he did say 7:30 A.M.… but we both know that he meant 0730 hours,” Yardley chuckled.
“OK, I'll be there. Did you say we were meeting in the Sit Room or his office?”
“He said his office, Lieutenant Colonel Newman.”
“Right … thanks.” Newman hung up the phone and thought of taking an extra twenty minutes of sleep, knowing he hadn't gotten to bed until after two-thirty, but he didn't. He got up, careful not to wake Rachel, and got into the shower.
That was nearly three hours ago, Newman thought. He was on time for the meeting, but Harrod was, as usual, late. Tardiness was one inconsideration that really got to Newman. He fidgeted in his chair in the reception area outside Harrod's office. Other employees were just now drifting in to work, and the receptionist saw him sitting there and offered him some coffee. Newman shook his head and mumbled a quiet, “No thanks.”
The clock above the receptionist's desk read 8:10 when Harrod finally walked through a back door down the hall. Newman saw him stop to sweep his card key to let himself in, and he did so quickly.
Five minutes later he came out of the front door to his office and waved to Newman. “Come on in. I've been on the phone for forty-five minutes,” he said to the Marine. That lie exasperated Newman's already deep lack of respect for Jabba the Hutt.
It took about twenty minutes for Harrod to bring Newman up to date with all that had transpired the previous day and the information from Kamil about Saddam's meeting.
“Just who is this Hussein Kamil character?” Newman asked.
“He's Saddam Hussein's son-in-law.”
“Oh, yeah … I thought his name sounded familiar. And this intelligence about a big terrorist gathering in Iraq came from him firsthand?”
Harrod nodded. He didn't tell Newman about the fact that Kamil wanted to defect and that this information was his down payment on an agreement to get him safely into the West. Instead, Harrod blurred the edges of the truth by telling him that a double agent had received this information. “This guy's Ukrainian—I think he used to work with Komulakov in Moscow, but now he works for the West,” Harrod explained.
“You mean the UN,” Newman said.
“Yes, but he's in our pocket too. His stuff is reliable. He can be utterly trusted.�
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“Uh-huh,” said Newman, not as convinced. “But what does all of this have to do with me or my team?”
Harrod acted impatient. “Judas, man, I just told you. Weren't you paying attention?”
“You're talking about a big meeting in Iraq in a little less than three weeks from now. When are you going to drop the other shoe?” Newman asked somewhat impatiently himself.
“Your orders have been changed. Instead of going into Somalia, your team will be going to Iraq. We're going to take out the whole lot of them! You see, here's the clincher. Aidid is gonna be there too! There are at least twelve names on that short list that I was telling you about—twelve of the world's most brutal terrorists that we want to eliminate.”
“Why not just send in the U.S. Air Force and level the building that they'll be meeting in?” asked Newman.
“Because this has to be done as a UN operation. That's what the ISEG was set up to do. And it has to be done without any U.S. fingerprints on it,” replied Harrod.
“How are we going to do that?”
“I've been thinking about all this,” said Harrod. “Yesterday I was out in Colorado for a briefing on our UAV program—you know, those unmanned aerial vehicles.”
Newman nodded, listening.
“We're about to start using a few of them over Iraq to see if they can cover the no-fly zones with them. I think if we put one of your ISETs on the ground in the vicinity of the meeting, they can confirm Saddam's guests, and when they all are inside, ‘paint’ the place with one of those new Laser Target Designators. Your guys can ‘fly’ a UAV rigged up with a warhead by remote control and send it right in the window of where this ‘terror summit’ is being held.” Harrod stopped and leaned back in his chair, pleased at his mastery of the military terminology.
Newman pondered what the National Security Advisor had just said and then asked, “I've never seen a UAV big enough to do really serious damage. Is there such a thing?”
“Yes, I just saw some video of it yesterday. It's called ‘Global Hawk,’ and it can carry a payload of more than twenty thousand pounds,” said Harrod with a smile.
“Well, that would certainly do the job,” said Newman. “But how do we avoid the U.S. fingerprints on this? We're the only ones who have such a thing.”
“Right,” said Harrod, still smiling. “And when it kills Saddam, Aidid, bin Laden, and all those other terrorists, we'll simply say that it went out of control and we regret that it crashed.” Harrod was now smiling like the Cheshire cat.
“When is this meeting in Iraq?” asked Newman.
“March 6. And it's in Tikrit—at Saddam's summer palace. It's his hometown,” said Harrod.
“Well, I have confidence in my guys … they'll get your bad guys. But, that doesn't give us much time,” Newman observed.
“Yes, I know,” Harrod said. “But everything that your guys have trained for in the Somalia plan will have tuned the guys up for this. So the plan will have to be tweaked a little, but it's still the same kind of mission. You need to tell your team about the change in plans. Where are they, still at Fort Bragg?”
Newman bit his tongue to keep from saying something he'd regret. He took a breath and spoke slowly and evenly. “No, Dr. Harrod,” he said, “my team completed their training at Fort Bragg and have been training at the British SAS site in Oman since the end of January.”
“Whatever …” Harrod said dismissively. “I want you to take this file of new intel and digest it. Then I want you on a plane to brief the ISEG, wherever they are, ASAP, preferably before dark. Do you understand your change in orders, Lieutenant Colonel Newman?”
“Aye-aye, sir!” Newman replied instinctively.
Harrod had chosen this specific moment to actually recognize the military considerations that would draw this response from the Marine. Distasteful as it was for him, he felt good about the response he got.
“Oh, Newman, by the way … there's one other detail.”
“Yes?”
“I remind you of the guidelines for these missions. You are not to accompany the units that go on the ground for this mission. I want you in Kuwait or Turkey, or wherever you decide is best to control this operation, but under no circumstances are you to go on the ground in Iraq.”
“I understand, but I remind you, Dr. Harrod, the SOP that you approved for these missions provides for me to ensure that they are properly inserted. If we have to use that converted MD-80 to put them in by High Altitude—High Opening parachute insertion, I plan to accompany the aircraft to determine that they're in the right place. Otherwise, we've wasted a well-trained team.”
“You may go on the insertion, and no further. No heroics. Is that clear?”
“Yes,” said the Marine, biting off the “sir” before it escaped his lips.
“How will you get them out, once the job is done?” asked Harrod.
“I don't know yet. I'll have to look at the intelligence, get some satellite photos of the terrain, analyze the enemy situation. The rear hatch on the MD-80 is too small to drop vehicles. I don't even think we can get the dirt bikes we've trained with through that hole. I don't know. I'll have to think about that. It may be necessary to use some U.S. air assets after all.”
“Well, let me know what you need. Remember, there cannot be any evidence of U.S. involvement when this whole thing is over,” Harrod warned him.
“I understand.”
“Good,” said Harrod, getting up from behind his cluttered desk. “Incidentally,” he said looking up at the Marine, “even if this all goes perfectly, there are likely to be some after-action reports prepared, and I'll need you back here filling in the blanks.”
Newman had mixed emotions about this change in plans. It didn't really matter where he found Aidid—that wasn't the issue. Right from the start, Harrod had made it clear that he didn't want Newman, Coombs, Robertson, or McDade going “in country” after Aidid. But right from the time he had begun planning for the Somalia operation, Newman had been hoping that the murderous warlord would be captured alive and brought to his command post in Djibouti by the ISEG when they extracted. He had long savored the thought that he would be able to look his brother's killer in the eye—before he killed him.
Now, with this new scenario, Aidid would simply perish in a ball of fire from the warhead of a high-tech machine—a robot programmed to kill. It would have to do.
Something else bothered the Marine: Harrod's comment about “after-action reports” and “filling in the blanks.” Newman thought, If Harrod has said it once he's said it a thousand times: he doesn't want a lot of paperwork floating around on this stuff. Now all of a sudden the mission has changed from Somalia to Iraq—and there are going to be questions to answer. I have no doubt that I'll have to answer the questions …I just wonder who will be asking them.
If anything went wrong, he knew who the fall guy would be.
MISSION DOUBTS
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Headquarters of Amn Al-Khass
________________________________________
Baghdad, Iraq
Monday, 20 February 1995
0910 Hours, Local
The phone on Hussein Kamil's desk jangled.
“Leave,” Kamil said to the two ranking officers sitting in front of his desk. “I must take this call.”
“Who are you and what do you want? And how did you get the number of my private line?” he said as soon as they had shut the door behind them.
The voice on the other end of the line did not identify itself and ignored the questions. “I must talk to you. Your three nephews are planning to visit. We must make arrangements.”
Kamil recognized the voice of Leonid Dotensk. He sat up straight in his chair. The warheads must be ready.
“I will meet you where we last met,” Kamil said, glancing at his watch. “At the same time. I will come with two of their uncles who will be anxious to make sure they are healthy.”
“No … I'm afraid they are not here
, but merely ready to visit. That is why I want to make arrangements with you.”
Kamil did not say anything for a moment. “All right. I'll meet you anyway.”
He hung up the telephone. He smiled, again enjoying the brilliance of shooting his chauffeur, then blackmailing Dotensk. He had even given the Ukrainian his handsome pistol just before dropping him off a block from his office—and after removing the remaining bullets from the magazine. He realized that even if Dotensk got rid of the gun, the Ukrainian knew Kamil could “find” other evidence to use against him.
Unfortunately, there were questions about the disappearance of the chauffeur. Abu's wife and son worried when he did not return that evening; they went directly to Hussein Kamil himself to ask about his whereabouts. He had to give them a line about a special mission and “national security” to keep them quiet. He reassured them that they would see him soon, but he told them not to speak about the matter to anyone in the meantime.
Kamil picked up the phone again to call one of his security officers. “Bring Abu's wife and son to my office. And get me a car from the palace motor pool. No, I don't need a driver. And no bodyguards.” It wouldn't do to have witnesses to his meeting with Dotensk.
When the wife and son arrived, Kamil escorted them into his private office. He gave them refreshments of tea and date loaves. Then, when the large shelf clock across the room began to chime, he said, “I will take you to see Abu now.” He led them to the rear entrance of the building where the Mercedes was parked, its motor running.
He leaned toward them as they approached the car. A motor pool driver was holding the door for them. “Say nothing, get into the car,” he whispered. They did as they were instructed, happy at last they would see their loved one who'd been missing for almost a week.
