by Oliver North
“Is that your camp up ahead?” Newman asked after another lull in the conversation.
“That's it—still about seven klicks away. Before we get there, can you tell me why the Somalia mission got canked?”
“All I know is that last Saturday, the National Security Advisor called me in and said that he had intel that Aidid was going to be at some big terrorist summit in Iraq on March 6. Our mission is to crash the party. The upside is that if we succeed, we get Saddam, Aidid, and a whole bunch of black hats all at once. The downsides are that we have very little time to prepare for the mission, we'll be using unproven technology, and we have to change the Primary Team from Bravo to Echo.”
Newman didn't mention to Weiskopf the other concern that had been nagging him since Harrod had changed the mission: McDade had been ringing every bell he knew at the CIA, NSA, NRO and DIA trying to get more intel on the March 6 pow-wow in Tikrit. None of the intelligence agencies knew anything about it.
Office of UN Force Command
________________________________________
UN Headquarters
New York, N.Y.
Friday, 24 February 1995
1035 Hours, Local
“General, call for you on the encrypted line from Baghdad.”
Komulakov looked up from the report he was reading. “All right, Major Ellwood, route it into my office. I'll take it in here.”
In ten seconds the phone rang. Komulakov switched on the EncryptionLok-3 device wired to his telephone. If, in the unlikely event that anyone was tapping the phone and listening, they would hear only garbled noises. The same was true at the other end. Leonid Dotensk also had an EL-3 device, provided to him at General Komulakov's direction as a “UN contractor.”
“Why are you calling me? I told you not to call here except in emergencies,” Komulakov said curtly in Russian.
“This is an emergency,” Dotensk replied. “You told me to push up the delivery schedule and I am flying to Kiev in an hour. I just want to make sure that the plan is still ‘go.’ I need to know the details because their scientists want to examine the goods before the money is sent. What happens after I get to Kiev?”
“Things are still on track. When you get to Kiev, Colonel Murat Kaszak will meet you at the airport. He will have a large Ukrainian military van and an official escort vehicle that will take you and your scientists out to the old military air base. You know the place?”
Dotensk sighed. “Yes … I know it well.”
Dotensk had been stationed there with a KGB Department V detachment during the Russian-Afghan war. By the time the Afghan debacle ended, he'd become totally disillusioned with the Russian military machine, especially its neglect of the military men who served in that conflict. Before a major in his unit defected to the West, he had told Dotensk that it was a sin how the Russian people and even the Ukrainians had such disrespect for the veterans of the Afghan war. “The Russians started this war only to test new military weapons. They had no real purpose or plan. Such a government does not deserve anything from us but our contempt.” Two weeks later he was in the West.
It was shortly after this that Dotensk became a double agent, working both sides of the street. He had not defected—but he was paid handsomely as a freelance operator by the CIA and occasionally gave them good information. He maintained an office and residence in Kiev. Dotensk had set up a bogus trading company that permitted lots of travel without serious scrutiny. And he was also an agent of the UN, working directly under the First Deputy, General Komulakov. Komulakov was also a friend of the Russian major who had defected, and apparently all of them were playing every authority for what they could get out of them.
Dotensk and Komulakov had a unique partnership. The general was still a Russian-Ukrainian citizen (no one knew for sure where he was born since he had birth certificates and passports for both nations) and he had a lot of contacts from the former Communist apparatus—ex-KGB officers like himself, military men and ex-military men—he even had ties with the Russian mafia.
Dotensk had similar ties from his own background. Between the two of them, Dotensk and Komulakov were able to recruit the renegade soldiers who had helped them locate and hide nine 177mm nuclear artillery warheads. During the chaotic transport operation to move the stockpiles of Soviet Army, Navy, and Strategic Rocket Force weapons from the Ukraine back to Russia in 1992, the redirection of the nine warheads was almost too easy. Overlapping bureaucracy and the haste of the whole operation made the thefts virtually undetectable.
Dotensk got some UN money from Komulakov through the International Atomic Energy Agency, ostensibly grants for research on reducing the nuclear weapons stockpile of the former Soviet Union. And, he could honestly say that he was reducing the number of Russian warheads—but Komulakov was the only person who knew the Ukrainian was reducing Russia's nuclear warheads by selling them to Iraq.
Dotensk listened carefully now as Komulakov filled him in on the details of retrieving the stolen warheads.
“At the air base outside of Kiev, Colonel Kaszak will take you all to a building at the air base and outfit you with decontamination suits. You take these suits with you and the colonel will have someone drive you north to Chernobyl. The driver will take you to the southern entry gate of the Chernobyl Restricted Zone. There you must don the protective suits and that is where my men will meet you and let the Iraqi scientists examine the three devices. The site is abandoned because it is still very contaminated—making it the safest place to store your devices. When Kamil's experts are satisfied, have them call their employer so that the first payment can be made. Then, on February 28 I have made arrangements for UN IAEA inspectors to fly in to Chernobyl for a routine inspection of radiation levels. While the UN inspectors are doing their work, my men will load our special cargo onto their plane. It will be packaged with ‘contaminated soil samples’ from the Chernobyl site, so even if the lead-shielded crates give off some radiation when the plane lands at our client's airport, no one should have to wonder why.”
“There is one other matter,” Dotensk said. “The client wants more product. Is it possible for us to supply him with more warheads before he leaves town in August?”
“Hmm … Perhaps. Did you discuss costs?”
“Only in general terms. But I thought because of supply and demand, the price ought to be two or three times our current price.”
“I agree. I think he will be good for it. I'll talk with you after this sale has been completed.”
Komulakov had a sudden thought. Unlike Dotensk, he knew that if things went as currently planned, their best—and thus far their only—paying customer would die in a fiery explosion on March 6 when the ISEG guided an explosives-laden UAV through a window of Saddam Hussein's palace. And then it occurred to the Russian general that even if Hussein Kamil somehow avoided the holocaust, a successful attack could still precipitate enough of a shakeup in the Iraqi regime to preempt any further sales.
“Uh … one more thing,” Komulakov said. “You need to warn your client not to leave Baghdad on March 6. There is … a possible incident that could create insurmountable problems for future sales. He must not go to Tikrit for the meeting with bin Laden.”
“He will want to know why. Do you want to tell me the reason?”
What could he tell Dotensk? Komulakov glanced at the doorway leading to the communications suite and Ellwood's desk. “I … don't think I should say. But plans are made and even now are being implemented …”
The slight electronic rustle on the phone told him Dotensk was running possibilities in his mind. Would his partner get scared, so late in the game? Another sale could easily net them several hundred million Swiss francs each.
“All right, then, listen carefully.” Komulakov glanced again toward his closed door and lowered his voice. “The British and Americans are planning to assassinate Saddam and the others on that day. If Kamil is there, he will die with the rest of them. You must make it a priority to protect our clie
nt. If you can get him to stay away from Tikrit on the sixth, it will be best.”
“But if Kamil stays away, and this attack goes forward, he will immediately be suspect,” replied Dotensk. “As I see it, if Saddam is assassinated there will be an immediate struggle for power—and if that is the case, it is unlikely that we will be able to sell any more merchandise to Iraq.”
Komulakov thought for a moment. “Then we must look after Saddam as well as our client … even if it means, uh, compromising the other plans.”
Komulakov hung up the secured telephone and sat very still for several minutes. He had just severely compromised a top-secret mission sponsored by the most powerful nation on earth and one of its closest allies. But … surely there would be other opportunities to eliminate this handful of terrorists. And why should Komulakov be concerned for Harrod's plan to make the American president a hero to the international community? Public approval was fleeting. But 500 million Swiss francs …
Yes … he would have to abort the mission. However, he'd have to keep up the pretense—at least until he collected the payment. There were many arrangements to make. Komulakov sat back in his chair, bridged his fingers in front of his face, and stared into the middle distance, deep in thought.
BARTERING LIVES
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Incirlik Air Base
________________________________________
Adana, Turkey
Monday, 27 February 1995
0530 Hours, Local
The U.S. Air Force C-130 had just been given clearance to land at Incirlik Air Base, ten kilometers east of the city of Adana—one of the most ancient sites in Turkey. Even at this early hour, Newman could see the base was a buzz of activity. Ordnance carts and “follow-me” trucks crisscrossed the aprons. Since Desert Shield in 1990, Incirlik had been the hub of NATO's patrols over Iraq's northern no-fly zones.
Aboard the plane, in addition to the five-man USAF flight crew, were Captain Joshua Weiskopf, the thirty-seven men of his United Nations International Sanctions Enforcement Group, and Lieutenant Colonel Peter J. Newman, USMC, head of the White House Special Projects Office.
As the lumbering transport banked to the left to commence its final approach, Newman climbed up into the cockpit. Below them in the predawn glow of the lights, he could see the two runways—one nearly two miles long, and the other only a bit shorter. Between the concrete strips, he could see the concrete and steel-reinforced aircraft shelters protecting American F-15 “Screaming Eagles,” F-16 “Fighting Falcons,” British Tornados and VC-10s, along with Turkish F-4Es, F-16s and HC-135s. On the parking ramps and spread out in revetments around the field were U.S. C-12s, HC-130s, KC-135 mid-air refueling tankers, a giant C-5 cargo transport, helicopters of various sizes and shapes, and a British VC-10.
Newman knew that, in one of the large hangars that surrounded the base, a team of Air Force and Teledyne-Ryan engineers and technicians were reassembling the Global Hawk that had been shipped in from Nevada.
The strategic base at Incirlik had been activated in 1954 and served all through the Cold War as a listening post as well as a site well suited for the launch and recovery of NATO surveillance and reconnaissance flights. Many of the American U-2 flights over the Soviet Union had originated here.
The horizon glowed red over the Nur mountain range to the east by the time the wheels squealed onto the end of the runway. The heavy craft slowed, turned left onto a high-speed taxiway and came to a halt beside one of the large hangars at the southwest corner of the base.
Newman climbed back down into the cavernous cabin feeling a sense of exhilaration. Ever since he left Washington a week ago, he had felt a renewed sense of balance. He was with a group of military men engaged in a challenging series of tasks. He was making things happen—and he was in charge. However, the knowledge that he was involved with similar-minded men in a difficult and potentially very dangerous endeavor heightened his natural sense of responsibility. Despite the fatigue and frequent time zone changes, every time he thought about being one day closer to evening the score with his brother's murderer, the adrenaline would kick in and he would feel even more alert.
“OK ladies, pick up your purses and follow me to the loo!” Sergeant Major Gabbard yelled as the ramp at the back of the aircraft dropped down. There were a couple of scattered hoo-rahs. The men grabbed their kits and shuffled toward the tarmac. They had been packed into the back of the aircraft since they boarded in Muscat just after dark at 1900 hours; they hadn't even been allowed off when the C-130 landed at Amman, Jordan, to take on fuel.
One of the SAS troopers stood at the base of the ramp and delivered an impromptu courtesy speech in a Cockney baritone: “It's been a pleasure having you aboard Air-sick Airways. If any of you weirdos have to travel to hell and back again, we hope you'll fly with us. Please take all your personal possessions with you. Don't leave any guns or grenades on the airplane. They scare the cleaning crew.”
Newman smiled. He knew he had a well-honed, high-spirited group. Despite the quick change in their mission, the operation was going well. In fact, the only glitch since the change in target was the unexpected delay in getting the MD-80 out from the States. He had wanted to use it to transport the ISEG from Muscat to Incirlik, but Dan Robertson had sent him a coded e-mail explaining that the USAF Spec Ops people wanted to change out the pilots for the new mission and the new crew had to practice flying the commercial airliner without the tail cone and with the rear hatch opened as it would be for parachute inserts.
Somehow, Robertson had diverted the C-130 to Muscat from courier service for the U.S. embassies in Africa. Newman vowed to call Harrod if the UN-marked MD-80 wasn't on base at Incirlik by Monday night.
At first, Newman had been concerned about the morale effect of the change in Primary Team for the mission. Had they gone after Aidid in Somalia as originally planned, the all-black Team Bravo would have carried out the hit. Newman was afraid the quick substitution of the Middle Eastern Team Echo might have hurt the ISEG's focus.
Echo had been looking forward to the planned capture of Mir Aimal Kansi, a Pakistani terrorist who had murdered two CIA agents in a brazen ambush near their Langley, Virginia, headquarters in 1993. Kansi was reportedly holed up in Afghanistan, suspected of being in league with Osama bin Laden, who was known to also have terrorist operations in Sudan. Echo would have been the point team in that operation. Some Afghanis who had heard about the $2 million reward for Kansi were willing to turn him over to the Americans.
Though Harrod and the CIA wanted Kansi's head, they would wait if the ISEG wanted to deliver bin Laden's first. If they could kill Saddam, bin Laden, and their key terror-planners, then people like Kansi would be like a hand without a brain to instruct it. To a man, Newman believed, the ISET understood the importance of the current mission. Bravo knew their turn would come, and Echo would be ready to do the job at hand. Every indicator of the mens' attitudes looked good to Newman.
Coombs and McDade met Newman and the ISEG on the Tarmac. They ushered the men into the hangar. The yawning interior had been quartered off with portable partitions. One corner had been converted into a billet, complete with military bunks and lockers. Beside it were piles of boxes, ammunition cases, and a miniature armory. The left front, near the big doors, was a well-equipped gym, complete with free weights and benches. And next to it was a briefing area with five rows of folding chairs facing the wall where maps of Iraq, Syria, Jordan, Iran, and Turkey were tacked to sheets of plywood.
“On the far side, through that door, we have offices for the commanders,” said Coombs, pointing. “As soon as the troops find their assigned bunks and get their gear stowed, we've arranged for them to eat breakfast at the USAF mess, just beyond the next hangar.”
“Your toy from Area 51 in Nevada is in the big hangar right next door, nobody around here even bats an eye when people like us or equipment like that shows up in the middle of the night. They're so used to this stuff around here,” McDade adde
d.
Newman nodded in approval. “Good work, guys. Let's get the troops fed and then back here for a brief. Has anyone heard from Dan Robertson on the whereabouts of our MD-80?”
McDade and Coombs looked at each other and both said almost at once, “You don't know?”
“Know what?”
“About the change-out in the pilots for the MD-80,” said Coombs.
“Yeah, I got that message from Dan Robertson before I left Muscat. What's the problem?”
“Well,” continued Coombs, “it looks like the President has gotten involved. He found out there are no female shooters in our operation, and he told Harrod he wants a woman involved in this mission. Jabba the Hutt has the Air Force scrambling around trying to find a female pilot who can fly the MD-80.”
“Over my dead body,” said Newman, heading off in the direction of the offices.
After breakfast, Sergeant Major Gabbard had the teams square away their billeting area, then he took them into the hangar next door to show them the Global Hawk. “All right, kiddies, remember,” he said, sliding the door open, “you can look, but don't touch.”
The all-black UAV was situated sideways on small dollies in the hangar; its 116-foot wingspan was too wide to fit through the hangar's doors. The ISEG officers and men gaped as two white-coated civilian engineers explained to them how they had replaced more than half of the fuel with a corresponding weight of C-4 plastic explosive … how the craft would be slid out of the hangar … how it would be launched under its own power, guided by radio and computer to the target area … and how the new sensor in its nose would seek out the reflected beam of a Laser Target Designator.
