Of course, if anyone believed Arthur volunteered out of the goodness of his patriotic heart, then someone should examine his Bahamian bank account. Arthur would eventually become another of those faceless, nameless bureaucrats that were never hired and never fired, but had complete access to the inner workings of government. Even the cynical Stillwell was somewhat shocked at the NSA’s blunt political calculation.
“Who’s going to lead this team?” Lisa’s eyes were aimed at the NSA, but her question was answered by the spook.
“Our recommendation is to insert a covert team into southern Iraq and penetrate Iraq’s central Data Center. We have no reason to believe we will be able to apply the correct resources in tracking these weapons down now that the Iraqis have had sufficient time to move them in country.
“However, the central Data Center is a major Iraqi installation. It is connected to every major weapon, command, and control center in Iraq. We believe that the Data Center holds the information to tell us exactly who, what, where, and how the Iraqis are preparing banned weapons systems.”
“How do you know that?” snapped Lisa Borden.
“The tooth fairy,” offered Brian.
He received a collective set of dirty looks from everyone except the spook and the Two Star.
The spook looked over the table to Lisa and replied, “We know this because we’ve been inside once before. Back in ’92.”
“Why aren’t we still there?” she demanded.
Brian thought of another one liner, but managed to restrain himself.
“We had a presence on their network for almost twelve months. We learned a great deal about how Saddam moves money, how he shuffles his doubles, and the post-war condition of his major command bunkers,” answered the spook.
“You need to understand the West Germans; they’re suppose to be our allies. They built several nuclear bomb-proof shelters a hundred meters below the ground on top of big springs,” explained Brian. “If we didn’t think Saddam was a bleeding maniac, we might think he’s a flipping gopher. He has tunnels with electric cars to take him from bunker to bunker. Do you know what we developed during the Gulf War? A bomb that could drill down over a one hundred meters and then blow up. It was really quite ingenious—kind of wish I’d thought of it. Unfortunately, the media folks and State Department schmucks fell in love with the one-hundred-hour war and we never got a chance to blow Saddam all over the inside of one of his pretty German bunkers.”
The spook rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath, “To answer your question about the team leader.”
“Yes, my question,” snapped Lisa.
“To accomplish our objectives, we need someone with knowledge of the desert, language skills, proven combat experience, and who can not be tied directly to the US government,” explained the spook.
Another political calculation was revealed to this select group: a black operation where only someone named Arthur would allegedly have any knowledge or planning. An icy tingling reached down Brian’s spine. The administration was scared. This entire scenario had not been concocted this morning. They must have preplanned for something like this. They were following some sort of war plan. As with any plan, it tended to unravel once the shooting started. Brian wondered if anyone besides the Two Star and spook realized this was going to happen. Perhaps Arthur was polishing his sword so he could fall on it at an opportune moment.
“What sort of team? If you don’t mind me asking,” pressed Brian.
The spook handed them a black covered briefing book. There were no numbers, titles, or logos on the binders. Usually, these things had a bar code in the lower left-hand corner. Brian looked at the spook again. Who was this guy?
“If you’ll turn to page two, I’ll explain the team composition.”
Page one consisted of a map and plot of the U-2, the Iraqi boat, and the submarine paths. Brian fingered the map for a moment before looking up. “Is anyone tracking this sub?”
“You don’t have a need to know, Mister Stillwell,” replied Arthur.
Stillwell locked eyes with Arthur. Arthur looked away quickly. Well, one thing was certain. Arthur was no Ollie North, and this administration better make sure Arthur never appeared in front of a Senate committee. He would sound more like Janet Reno than Ollie North. Brian turned to the next page.
“The team composition requires a team leader, weapons expert, protective services fire team experienced in chemical, biological and nuclear weapon disposal, and a computer database expert. That’s a seven-man team. They will be able to communicate via satellite link to our command post.”
Brian’s icy tingle frosted over into a full-fledged glacier. His eyes were riveted to the wordsweapons expert . Oh, he had passed a test today, but not for being the annoying analyst in the back of the room. The test Brian passed was a database search, and he was still fogging the mirror. His name must have come out on top. This was not going to be handed off to an ineffective UN Weapons Inspection Team. This was going to be Uncle’s little party—a party where people usually end up dead, or missing, or both.
“I believe you’ve found your role in all of this,” smiled the NSA. He withdrew an envelope from his suit coat pocket. “You’ll find everything very much in order. The only abnormality is that this letter is actually signed by the Secretary of the Army.” The smile turned to a prankster’s smirk. “We had to get him out of bed this morning to sign it. Arthur took care of all the paperwork.”
Brian stared at the proffered letter like it was a wiggling, venomous viper. Letters from politicians in meetings like these never came to good ends. Gingerly, Brian accepted the letter.
Brian opened the envelope and stared at the letter.
“It says you’ve been reactivated as a First Lieutenant, United States Army. I hope you didn’t have any plans this evening, because as of now, you’re in the army, son.”
Brian stared open-mouthed at the NSA. Lisa Borden found it all rather amusing. It was comeuppance due for such a rude man.
“You do remember how to fire a gun?” asked the NSA.
Stillwell snapped back to reality. “Oh yes, sir. Wish I had one right now.” Arthur leaned forward and plucked the letter from Brian’s fingers.
“I’ll keep it safe for you,” explained Arthur.
“Just make sure you shred it both ways,” suggested Brian.
Arthur nodded as he stole the letter away into his suit coat pocket.
Stillwell realized what was strange about the Two Star General. He had no nametag. All officers were required to wear a nametag. The medals and chevrons looked real enough. He had the bearing of man who hadbeen there. Blood and death were no strangers to this warrior. Yet Brian could not place a name with the face, and this nameless, faceless general sat at a table deciding his future. A future with limited possibilities.
“The protective service fire team is being selected as we speak,” the Two Star read from his own notes. “It will be a Force Recon detachment. These men will not have any immediate family and only limited ties to extended family. Their service records have been altered to indicate training accidents, discharge, or disqualification for other reasons. Obviously, we can’t use the same excuse for everyone. In the event someone decides to look, we need a clean slate for these men.” The General looked across the table at a civilian who had just become a soldier again. He found it astounding that a reserve officer would be sent on a covert op into Indian country.
“Their weapons will be standard issue. Their clothing will be authentic to the region and all are Arabic speakers.” He paused again and looked at the nameless spook. “All, that is, except Lieutenant Stillwell here. Country infiltration and exit will be accomplished by land vehicle. Air evacuation is only a last resort.”
If anyone had bothered to look at a map, they would have realized the supporting details for this mission were bogus. The Iraqi Data Center was deep inside the southern no-fly zone in fairly rough terrain. The ground was rent with gullies gouged throug
h soft sand and hard rocks. It was uneven and it rained very little. The wind could be fierce, raising deadly sandstorms, and the heat could leach the water out of any man.
They were heading for the edges of the Syrian Desert while Saddam lay to the north along the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers. To the west lay too much desert and hostile Arab territory before arriving in Israel. To the East awaited Kuwait, but if anyone figured out what they were about, an exit back to Kuwait would vanish. Of course, the map indicated a border to the south and refuge in Saudi Arabia. Considering the prize they were after—Saddam’s total order of battle for both conventional and unconventional weapons—simple lines drawn on maps would not impede the pursuit. Besides, the great Saudi desert might do the job nicely for Saddam.
Stillwell nodded slightly. The unspoken truth here involved his capture. A weapon expert of his caliber could not fall into Saddam’s hands. He wondered who had the chore of killing him to avoid capture. If Brian were designing this mission, all four of the Force Recon Marines would be given the same order either as a group or in private. “Do I get a blindfold or a cigarette, Sir?”
The NSA chuckled, “Brian, let’s not be so glum. No one is going to get killed, and as soon as you’re back, this letter Arthur has disappears. You’ll have the personal thanks of the President and the heartfelt gratitude of the country. We find out what Saddam’s up to and fix it so it doesn’t work anymore.”
“All right, so we’ve got our weapons expert and some marines to shoot bad guys. So who’s the computer whiz and team leader?”
“You have such a way with words, Lisa,” snapped the NSA. He flipped the page on the briefing folder to a photograph of a soldier in fatigues. “May I present Major James Harper, United States Special Forces Retired. He will serve in both capacities.”
Brian found it somewhat curious that nowhere on the dossier or photograph was there an indication of service branch or unit designation. There were no insignia like Navy SEAL or DELTA. This Harper seemed as faceless and nameless as the spook sitting next to him. Special Forces was an ambiguous title.
“He was at the top on both lists of available personnel who fit our mission criteria,” continued the spook. “Major Harper is conversant with most information technology likely to be encountered on the mission. He has previously broken into Iraqi computer systems and—”
Lisa Borden looked up from the briefing book. “It says under the psyche profile that he’s a born-again Christian.” She laughed—not a very nice laugh. “You’re going to send some fruitcake Jesus freak on a mission into the desert? What are you, nuts?” Her voice rose with passion and volume. “Everyone knows these type of people favor Israel over everything else over there.” Brian was unsure whetherthese type of people orIsrael received more derision from Lisa Borden. But then, she was from the State Department, and American Foreign Policy seemed to be dedicated to a mission designed to deify Yassir Arafat and blame Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu for most Arab terrorism.
“That’s all we need at the UN. Saddam gets his hands on a Jew-loving, Jesus freak on a black op to one of his presidential palaces. No, gentlemen, I’m afraid State can never approve of this choice. I—”
“Ma’am!” interrupted the Two Star. “I don’t care whether State will approve or disapprove of Jim Harper. From 1980 to 1992, he took care of some this country’s biggest problems. He’s something of a legend in the Spec War community. Most everything we know about the inside of Saddam’s computer network came from Jim, and one of the reasons you’re here today is because Jim Harper stopped a mess like this once before.
“I’ve had men under my command. I wish all of them were like Harper.” Something seemed to boil out of the Two Star who no longer cared about promotion. He was obviously destroying his chance for career advancement. “We are going to send in a team without support, without backup, to find something the Red Chinese gave to a crazy man. Now the only reason we don’t go in with all guns blazing is because we want the Red Chinese to like us. So, we’ll ignore the problem of a sub running loose in the Gulf, and the transmission of a weapon to the Iraqis because it is politically expedient to do so. We’re talking about sending my friend back to hell, and you’re upset because he goes to church.”
Lisa Borden was as dumb as she was loud. “I don’t care if he’s King David returned from the dead. You don’t send some Bible thumper into Iraq with the possibility of the whole Arab world exploding if he gets caught!”
The NSA closed his eyes. Stillwell watched the hammer drop, and wondered as it fell—what is the agenda? He was sitting in a room with a no name spook, a Spec War Two Star general, a White House hatchet man, the National Security Advisor, and an openly hostile deputy Secretary of State. They were discussing a mission to do what? To capture chemical or nuclear weapons delivered by the Chinese. Perhaps the intention was to lose those weapons. After all, the administration owed its reelection to illegal contributions from the Chinese Government. The politics might dictate certain sensitivities towards Chinese involvement. However, there were other elements equally distressed at the prospect of heavy-duty chemical weapons being made available to Saddam. Evidently, the NSA feared the practical national security issues over a more muddled political agenda.
“Madam Secretary, I am not interested in your proclivities towards or against a person’s religion. As you are well aware, our administration is an inclusive administration. The word of the day is diversity. Now, according to Mister Stillwell here, our focus should be on the containment of what we saw this morning. I believe he would like to stomp on everything. It’s my job to make national security decisions, and it is my job to determine the best tool to implement those decisions. I’ll repeat for the last time: You are here as a courtesy, and we are talking about a very sensitive issue here. Leaks to the press or others will not be permitted. On this point the President has been explicit.” Lisa Borden seemed to shrink back into her chair with each statement. Both knew who would prevail today in this room. It was only a battle, not the war.
“Perhaps we can proceed with Mister Harper’s credentials,” he concluded.
The nameless spook looked up from his report. “I believe some background may be in order. We know Iraq has been able to get its hands on a number of Hewlett Packard (HP) machines. Our best intelligence indicates these machines were diverted from France during a replacement of HP-9000 with IBM RS-6000 systems. The excuse for the replacement is a general market trend towards IBM equipment in Europe. The HPs were supposed to be transshipped back to England. However, the computers returned were about a dozen 386 PC clones and the HP boxes disappeared.
“We believe the HP’s shipment arrived in Amman, Jordan. It is a simple matter of trucking the equipment across the border and into the desert. If all software licenses were left in place, the Iraqi’s have gotten their hands on about twenty gigabytes of hard disk, five hundred megabytes of memory, and two Oracle 7.1 databases. The software is more than adequate to assist the Iraqi government in managing any secret weapons’ research.
“One of the things we learned during the Gulf War was the existence of an extensive fiber optic network. With this equipment, they can connect from a variety of locations to central servers. Such a network enables the Iraqis to continue moving weapon prototypes about in an elaborate shell game. Even with satellite and reconnaissance over flights, we are not completely certain where everything is located. These databases have the precise information we need.
“We know these machines exist. We know approximately where they are located, and we have an electronic backdoor into these systems.” He looked around the table. “Jim Harper’s last mission, before retiring, compromised this network. We have some hidden user accounts at both the operating system and database level. Unfortunately, the Iraqis do not allow any dialup access at all to their networks. They have hardened their systems to outside attack. We need to get to a terminal and execute an attack from inside the Iraqi network.
“Jim Harper
is the logical choice. He knows how the network was put together. It is our assessment that you, Mister Stillwell, working with Mister Harper have the best chance of figuring out where and what weapons systems still exist in Iraq. We believe the data would be in real time. Therefore, we could effectively take out all weapon sites in one stroke.”
It sounded so tidy on paper. Brian shook his head, smiling in spite of himself. If they had so many clever facts about Saddam’s computers, why not use a couple of stray smart bombs and blast them to bits? Why allow the equipment into Iraq in the first place? Brian had so many questions, and quite a few bad answers. The other nagging fact: it was doubtful that even a massiveTomahawk cruise missile and air campaign could completely eliminate the threat.
“You have a comment?” inquired the NSA.
“I don’t suppose you’ve asked the Iraqis if it’s okay to raid their database, call up the US Navy on the phone, and bomb their research sites back to the Stone Age. I presume they might be somewhat upset with our presence there. They might even be shooting at us. Besides, it takes time to raid a database and find the right data.” He held up his hand. “But I know the answer. We have four Marines to hold off the Republican Guard, that makes all the difference in my mind.” He spat out the last.
CHAPTER FOUR
Persian Gulf
Saturday, November 15, 1997
7:30 P.M. (GMT + 3.00)
Captain Tze Wong stared across the confines of his stateroom. His gaze fixed on a portrait. It was a color photograph remembering the grand day when the404 was launched. She proudly flew her colors, slicing through the South China Sea like the shark she was. The404 was China’s challenge to the arrogant Americans. No longer would anyone look upon the People Liberation Army Navy as a toy fleet. TheHan Class was a nuclear answer to the surviving superpower. A replacement for the hapless Russians—a people no longer masters of their own destiny. Russia was for sale, and the buyers were American and Japanese bankers.
PointOfHonor Page 3
