PointOfHonor

by Susan Glinert Stevens

  “The sooner the better.” Jonas paused, debating the wisdom of his next decision. He shrugged and went with his instinct. “Jim, you need to understand I have the cavalry, but we’re dealing with some pretty desperate folks here.”

  Jerry’s ashen face visited Harper. “I know.” Payback was coming and it was coming soon.

  “We found what was left of the crew from the Iraqi boat—the one that hooked up with the Chinese sub. They were shot dead. We found them on the Fao Peninsula. The boat had been scuttled and whatever they were bringing back has vanished.”

  “Dead men tell no tales. That’s standard for this part of the world,” replied Jim.

  “It looked like they had been brought back to where they scuttled the boat. You’re dealing with Saddam’s top security people here. They’ll do whatever they wish if they capture you. We’ve had reports. Nothing we can substantiate—probably because we don’t have survivors. They’ve got gas chambers. They’ve been using this stuff on prisoners, then dissecting the corpses. It’s like something out of Hitler’s Germany.”

  Harper nodded. The horrors of the past were coming back towards final days of the twentieth century. The concept of ethics vanished in the relentless pursuit of a higher goal. Right and wrong blurred under the need to produce deadly weapons. Weapons designed to be used against Tel Aviv, Teheran, or New York? The delivery system could be something as benign as a shaving kit.

  “I understand. Look, Jonas, why don’t you go talk to the rest of the troops. We step off at twenty-hundred hours local time.”

  Jonas got up from the briefing table and left Harper alone. He waited until the door shut before opening his grip. There amidst the ammunition, magazines, and night vision goggles was the small red-bound Bible. He picked it out of the grip and thumbed the snap open. Two photographs slid into his hands. One showed his girls dressed up for Easter. They stood in their finery on the deck on a sunny spring day. The other, from when they were first married, was a picture of Lynn with longer hair and younger skin.

  Had they ever been that young? Where had all the years gone? Now he had two girls half a world away. He was sitting in a makeshift briefing room about to step off into the desert night and chase the bogeyman.

  He opened to the Ninety First Psalm. He read the following:

  You will not be afraid of the terror by night,

  Or of the arrow that flies by day;

  Of the pestilence that stalks in darkness,

  Or of the destruction that lays waste at noon.

  A thousand may fall at your side

  And ten thousand at your right hand,

  But it shall not approach you.

  It has been said there are no atheists in foxholes. Combat has a way of bringing a man to stark acknowledgement in his mortality and the immortality of his Creator. Harper closed his eyes and breathed out. More than anything, he wanted to hug his girls tight to his chest and stroll on a warm beach with Lynn. For some reason, he had ventured back to this barren place close to the Promised Land to chase a phantom.

  It had seemed so clear back in Bartlett. Now, the certainty ebbed with the nearness at hand. He bent his head to his chest and whispered, “Forgive me.” Jim closed the small Bible and slipped it back into his grip. He never read the last lines of the Psalm, and never claimed their promise.

  He will call upon Me, and I will answer him;

  I will be with him in trouble;

  I will rescue him and honor him.

  With a long life I will satisfy him

  And let him see My Salvation.

  Jim stood and gathered himself. It was time for battle. He fixed his game face and checked his weapons. There were no illusions about where he was going or the chances he was taking. Life is an extraordinary precious gift, and families are an extension of that gift. For Jim Harper, it was a sacred trust.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Baghdad, Iraq

  Sunday, November 16, 1997

  6:00 P.M. (GMT +3.00)

  Colonel Taha Duri settled himself in his office. Unlike his Western equivalents where status was measured by the number of windows and highly stylized office furnishings, status in Iraq’s Special Security Services was measured by how far below street level and how bombproof one’s office was. The threat of AmericanTomahawk cruise missiles and precision guided munitions launched from F-117Nighthawk stealth strike aircraft caused the intelligence services to burrow deep below Baghdad’s busy streets.

  Duri’s office had its own safe built into the concrete subwall, a bombproof door, and a special ventilation system not dependent on the visible surface vents. The laughter evoked from the assembled press corps as an American Air Force General commented on the destruction of his counterpart’s headquarters duringDesert Storm had caused Iraq’s top defense and intelligence ministries to leave the visible targets in place while the real work was sheltered under tons of concrete. Saddam’s own generals never knew when he might provoke the Americans to strike again.

  The surroundings were dreary, and the paint on the walls was a pale green. Duri had some assurance that his office would still be there the next day. Certainly, the current tension over UN weapon inspectors and the increasingly belligerent attitude of the American administration could be a predictor of future attacks. TheUSS Nimitz andGeorge Washington carrier battle groups had the firepower to prosecute any orders delivered.

  Duri’s job was not to defeat the US Navy, but merely to protect the secret weapon programs from detection and exposure. He managed a complicated shell game of moving truckloads of important looking equipment from one Presidential palace to another. Half the time the trucks were filled with empty boxes and shiny metal canisters. American satellites and U-2 spy planes dutifully recorded the transfer. The lack of American human intelligence on the ground in Iraq was used mercilessly against the robotic watchers. Indeed, the Americans could count tanks and guns or boxes and canisters as the need arose, but they lacked the ability to know what was inside. The most technically advanced nation had lost its soul to machines made of melted sand and copper filaments.

  The UN inspection teams attempted to gain entrance to the identified palace sites, and the Iraqi foreign ministry pointedly denied access. The ping-pong game would continue for a week, maybe two, before the rage and stammering on the international stage mounted. Then, without any resistance, permission would be granted to the inspection teams. Remote cameras and listening devices would be uncovered, and Iraq would allow the inspection teams access again.

  It was the beginning of another crisis largely over nothing. The UNSCOM teams placed cameras next to suspected chemical, biological, or nuclear sites. Duri had already ordered two sets of cameras to be sprayed with black paint—effectively blinding the electronic surveillance. Over the next few months, the pressure would be stepped up by denying access to additional sites and leaking the stories that chemical and biological labs could be taken down and set up overnight.

  The true chemical and biological warfare labs had been dispersed to desert and mountain sites. Some of the smaller labs were left in Baghdad and Tikrit for the UNSCOM teams to find. After all, their charter was to find weapons of mass destruction. As long as they found some test tubes, Anthrax vaccine, and the potential for basic botulinum toxin, they would have plenty to report. Duri supplied something for the UN teams to find, and this seemed to keep the Americans happy—confident in their fantasy that they were punishing Saddam.

  Duri managed a game of cat and mouse. The truly important weapon systems were gone. However, the file sitting before him posed a real threat to Duri’s entire subterfuge. The weakest link in Iraq’s special weapons program was information management. The problem was rapid development of complex weapon systems without sufficient computer systems. The computer systems they stole and bartered for came through third parties largely barred from advanced technology by American import/export laws.

  Computer technology did not reside in the former Soviet Empire or the burgeoning Chines
e Empire. Computer technology was dominated by America and, to a lesser extent, Europe. But European technology was eighteen to thirty months behind America, and anything Iraq was able to steal from its silent allies was close to five or six years out of date. The tempo of American technological expansion continued to increase, and the gap between American computer technology and the rest of the world widened daily. In some ways, American computers were more valuable than plutonium. After all, there were enough Soviet warheads floating around to maintain a healthy supply of plutonium.

  The other problem was finding people to support the technology Iraq was able to acquire. The graphical user interface was merely a paradigm to interact with a much more vast and complex technology ocean hidden from the casual user. Maintaining complex database servers, local area and wide area networks, and supplying the unending programming responses for those laboring in the weapon labs was a constant strain. Iraq simply did not have the people available to support the information infrastructure required for modern weapon research and development.

  Today, an American team had been dispatched to raid Iraq’s single information processing asset. The black and white photographs stared back at Duri from his desk. Their names, service records, and areas of expertise were written in precise script below each face. The mission plan, timetable, and immediate assets were listed on a separate sheet.

  Duri glanced at the wall clock and realized the Americans could already be on the ground in Kuwait. Infiltration through the border would probably take place tonight.

  He pulled the photograph of Major James Harper. According to the attached service record, Harper had been inside the Data Center once before. A thin smile emerged on Duri’s lips. Harper had caused a great deal of trouble by linking into the fiber network connecting Iraq’s military and weapon sites. He had seemingly walked into the Data Center, initiated a firefight, and walked back out.

  This time it would be different, and Duri would have an interesting prisoner to dangle before his superiors. It was the second photo, though, that piqued Duri’s interest. It seemed odd that an expert of this caliber would be given the lowly rank of Lieutenant. He was an expert in unconventional warfare and a member of one of Washington’s prestigious think tanks devoted to studying the unthinkable.

  Somehow, Brian Stillwell had been attached to a covert mission deep into Iraq. He was a talented analyst, but no warrior. Soon he would be within Duri’s grasp. An expert such as Stillwell could very easily tip the balance of Iraq’s weapons program from experimental novelties to practical wartime applications. The Americans expected problems, and they were sending Stillwell to do some sort of analysis based on the information obtained from the Data Center.

  Duri’s phone rang.

  His call to the Special Republic Guard Company garrisoned near the Data Center had been completed. The captain in command listened as Duri explained his new mission. When Duri dropped the phone receiver back into its cradle, he tapped Harper’s photograph. “This time, Major, it won’t be so simple.”

  Duri stood and walked across the room to his fax machine. At least this level of technology could be acquired from friends in Jordan. He placed the six photographs and his own instructions face down on the document feeder. He punched in the numbers for the Data Center fax and fleetingly considered the possibility of getting out of Iraq. The Alps were lovely this time of year. Who knows, perhaps he could even sell Stillwell back to the Americans.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Strait of Hormuz

  Sunday, November 16, 1997

  8:00 P.M. (+3.00 GMT)

  The S-3BViking rolled west, away from theStrait of Hormuz, and parallel to the southern Iranian coastline. In the darkening skies, the red and green lights from offshore oil platforms twinkled brightly. The running lights from freighters and oil tankers moved ponderously into the Gulf. The myriad of small islands dotting the boundary between the Persian Gulf and the Gulf of Oman quietly vanished with the setting sun.

  The lights from Bandar-e Moghüyen and Bandar-e Lengeh reminded the pilot of home and family. Mothers were still getting children ready for bed, and fathers were coming home from work. They may have thought America was the Great Satan, but life was pretty much the same for families in both countries.

  TheViking was heading back to theGeorge Washington. They had spent a long day hunting for a Chinese sub that might only be a phantom. The S-3BViking is fundamentally a flying video game capable of launching torpedoes, mines, rockets, bombs, and missiles. However, before it could destroy a target, it had to find one.

  To do this, theViking dropped acoustic and non-acoustic sensors—much like a giant game ofBattleship . The entire ocean was the enemy’s board and the little white pegs were sensors, special radar, and sonar systems. Somewhere below and to the east theUSS Springfield also searched for the same elusive prey.

  Computer monitors, sonar screens, and flight controls illuminated theViking’s flight deck. The Inverse Synthetic Aperture Radar (ISAR) took another reading from the sensors bobbing in the sea below. The computers gathered a blizzard of information from the sensors as long as the batteries lasted, and blended it into a hunt for man-made sound.

  Tommy Hargroves was popping the top of his last Diet Coke when the ISAR started chirping. The other crewmembers turned to stare at the alarm board. Tommy pulled his headset back over his ears and fiddled with a couple of dials. “I’ve got some sort of submerged signature—making one weird racket,” he announced.

  Tyrone Masters flipped the satellite up-link toggles on and directed the data feed back to the battle management command center aboard theGeorge Washington . He looked over his shoulder at Tommy and asked, “What’s ISAR think it is?”

  Tommy shrugged and flipped the cabin speaker on. A combination of a buzz saw and snapping filled the rear of the flight deck. “I don’t know. You can hear the screws turning, at least I think they’re screws, but something is really wrong down there.”

  “It’s not one of ours?” asked Bernie Mueller.

  Tommy looked towards the pilot. “No. It’s definitely something else.”

  Bernie toggled his microphone and said, “Washington,this isEyepiece 3 . We have unknown contact. Repeat,Washington, this isEyepiece 3 . We have unknown contact. Approximate position is thirty klicks south of Bandar-e Lengeh—that is three-zero klicks south of Bandar-e Lengeh, and approximately one-hundred-ten klicks due west of Al-Khasab—that is one-one-zero klicks due west of Al-Khasab. We are uploading data to you and are turning south into a figure eight formation. Oh, andWashington , if we have to stay up here much longer, we’ll get kind of thirsty.”

  “Roger,Eyepiece 3. We confirm your data link. Ah, we have a tanker fromNimitz closest to your position. About twenty minutes.”

  Bernie toggled his microphone again. “Thank you,Washington. ” He clicked off.

  Martin Hansen checked their position on the global positioning satellite feed and joked, “Tommy, you’d better nurse that Coke, I think we’re going to be here awhile.”

  Tommy grunted as he tuned ISAR. “We’re moving away from contact.”

  Bernie looked at the onboard navigational map and pulled theViking towards the north. “You just guide me in over the top of him.”

  * * * *

  Captain Jeff Andrews moved through theSpringfield’s crowded control room asking, “What’ve we got Robbie?”

  Rob Bremer looked up from the chart table. “It looks like aViking found something right here.” He circled a spot about ten klicks south-southeast of marshes between Bandar-e Moghüyen and Bandar-e Lengeh. “We’re getting data link from theWashington right now.”

  “How long before sonar has the sound signature loaded?”

  Chief of the Boat, Ernie Watson, poked a thumb over his shoulder and said, “Ten seconds. I just got Henderson out of the rack. He’s the best we got.”

  Jeff nodded. “Good work, Chief.” He glanced back to Robbie. “Did we get any clarification on our orders?”

 
Robbie shook his head.

  Jeff scowled. “Henderson, you got that fancy boom box working yet?”

  A curly haired, pimply looking kid with thick glasses looked back. “Yes, sir. We’re playing theStones on channel two.”

  Jeff nodded. “Carry on.” He glanced at the chief. “You say he’s our best.”

  The Chief, closing on the far side of forty, who nursed, cursed, and cajoled his men, replied, “Total computer geek, sir. Trust me on this, sir. He’s the best I’ve seen in ten years.”

  “Robbie, distance to target.”

  Robbie drew a line on the plot chart. “Seventy-two knots, sir.”

  “Are we shallow enough to get real time feed from theViking ?”

  “Towed array is deployed. Satellite links are stable,” replied Chief Watson.

  “Set course, three-three-five—speed seven knots,” he told Robbie.

  Robbie turned to the helmsmen and repeated the order. The three-hundred-sixty-foot metal tube guarding men against the sea outside turned towards the southern Iranian coast. TheSpringfield made a hole in the ocean and slid into it. The BQQ-5E sonar suite consisting of over 1000 hydrophones was located in the very forward end of the boat. It began to probe the shallow depths. Henderson ran the digital image captured by Tommy Hargroves’ sensors, and sought to match that image with something he could hear.

  Andrews turned to the weapons board. If this was a damaged Chinese boat on a covert mission, they could be getting desperate. He turned to Robbie and ordered, “Spin up the ADCAPs in tubes one and two.”

  Robbie nodded and gave the order.

  * * * *

  The activeping hammered the404’s double hull like an ancient gong being rung. Captain Tze Wong looked up from his plot table and sighed. The secondping seemed even louder. He found the anxious eyes of his remaining crew watching him for strength and courage. Strength and courage were important, but honor meant more.