Carnady rubbed his brow. Not good—not good at all to have this on somebody’s PC.
“Where’d they get it?”
Louis flipped open a notepad and said, “George, we’ve been friends for a long time.” In fact, they had been friends since the Reagan years when both had proposed a plan to develop a special counter-terrorist team outside all military channels. A secret team of fifty or so recruits run from the intelligence community and hidden from public view, unlike the stories regarding DELTA and the SEALS.
George Carnady had been a light colonel, and Louis a much younger man running agents inside the Indochina, Eastern Europe, and inside the still strong Soviet Empire during the turbulent seventies. The word came down early in the Reagan years: they were going to win the Cold War. No one really believed such nonsense except Bill Casey and Ronald Reagan.
It was crazy to talk about defeating the evil empire. The Soviet Union was a fact of life and a permanent fixture on the world stage. So how did the new President (and former Hollywood actor) fail to understand such fundamental policies?
Today, everyone understood that the Soviet model lay on history’s trash heap. The dominating post war era of Mutually Assured Destruction—whose acronym was aptly coined MAD—was a bygone era. The mighty Red Army had become fragmented, impoverished, and uncertain. The bastion of Marxist revolution grew penniless, and the first faint stirrings of democratic rule sprouted through the gray rubble. Freedom attempted to find a foothold in the barren soil of people ruled for centuries by tsars and dictators.
Ronald Reagan was right. Bill Casey was perhaps one of the few men who truly understood the Great Communicator and moved like a seasoned spook to implement his President’s policies. Bill Casey paged through hundreds of personnel folders to find Louis and George. Both had become refugees during the Carter Administration where force of any kind was always the last resort.
Admiral Stansfield Turner, who was Carter’s Director of Central Intelligence, had a blacklist that became an honor roll for Casey. Louis had found himself prominently displaced during the Carter years due to his views on using human spies instead of relying on satellites—a concept contrary to Admiral Turner’s absolute belief in satellites and machines. Louis argued that what people thought was just as important as how many tanks, planes, or missiles they might have. It was barren ground. Louis found himself banished and counting nervous looking sheep in New Zealand.
Similarly, George Carnady had written several white papers that suggested the formation of highly trained counter-terrorist teams be formed to combat the increasing aggressiveness coming from the Middle East, Central America, and Southeast Asia. The right idea proffered too soon after Vietnam. This was an era of amnesty for draft dodgers. Uniforms, blood, and honor were passé. America retreated from her responsibilities and looked for ways to appease the oil producing states. Carnady found himself commanding a weather station in the Aleutian Islands.
Over warm brandy and fine cigars, Bill Casey listened to their stories and entertained their theories about what needed to be done. The times were urgent. America’s armed forces had languished for lack of funding and realistic training. Should the Red Army decide to drive through the Fulda Gap with two hundred or more divisions, no one was certain the ninety or so NATO divisions could stop them short of the Ruhr cities.
The defeat in Vietnam, Reagan’s predecessor’s talk of a general malaise, and the affront of the Iranian hostage taking left the world wondering if there would soon only be one superpower—a Soviet superpower. Never should the country be faced with another embassy hostage taking. There needed to be a team ready to go and ready to fight. America’s prestige and the perception of her willingness to deal with bandit states needed to be rebuilt. Words and symbols could inspire, but definite and decisive actions were needed to remove doubts regarding America’s willingness to engage her enemies.
Louis still remembered the half grin on Casey’s face. He reached into a drawer and pulled out a letter. It was the most extraordinary letter either George or Louis had ever seen. Signed by both Casper Weinberger—Secretary of Defense—and William Casey—Director of Central Intelligence, the letter instructed any military commander to provide all possible assistance to the letter’s bearers.
Casey puffed a cigar contentedly and explained to the stunned pair, “I’ve picked you two to do what you’ve been talking about for five years. We need a team capable of going wherever and accomplishing whatever. I don’t know what the missions will be yet. Time and circumstances will dictate that. But understand this—this team is theblackest of the black .
“I don’t want a fancy name or number or anything else that will show up in theWashington Post orNew York Times . These men, and possibly women, will have to do some extraordinary things, because by the time this administration is finished in eight years, we’re going to beat the Russian Bear back into its hole for good. That’s the overall mission—no more containment or strained coexistence. The job before you is to give this country a weapon to break the Soviet Union into a million little pieces without lighting the nuclear fuse.” He lifted his glass as a toast.
The missions required technical and martial expertise. The Soviet economy had been given several not-so-gentle shoves towards the brink. They had even managed to place a man inside North Korea’s nuclear production facility, and helped more than one Iranian Mullah meet Allah a bit earlier than planned.
They had lost over half the people recruited. Death was not an uncommon occurrence in this silent service. The list of those who actually knew what had been done during the Reagan and Bush years never reached more than fifteen. Over time, they learned how to develop funding sources beyond the Federal treasury, and they managed to maintain a bureaucratic presence inside Langley.
In late 1992 when it became clear the tide was turning, Louis quietly turned the switch off, and thisblackest of the black disbanded. There were times when you protected your most vital secrets from those you were pledged to work for. The 1992 election was such a time.
Carnady nodded. “Yes. What’s your point Louis?”
“How did Harper’s Q file leak?”
George settled back in his chair. “Wenever computerized those files. As far as I know, you have the only paper copies in a vault down at Langley. You weren’t at the briefing when we discussed Harper as mission leader.”
“No, I was busy convincing Harper to come back. It took some doing. He wanted an insurance policy for Jerry’s wife and kids. I had to draw some funds from one of our accounts. Tricky business these days with the White House constantly looking at everything we’re doing.”
“Young Jonas was the briefing officer. There was a deputy Secretary of State for the Middle East—a boorish woman is the best way to describe her. The NSA and his aide attended, plus the poor fellow we sent along on this team.”
“Stillwell?”
George nodded. “That’s his name. I don’t think he was up to stomping through the desert and getting shot at.”
“So were the Q files there?” asked Louis.
George shook his head. “A briefing paper. There was a heavily edited synopsis of Harper’s experience, along with the rest of the team. But the Marines were not part of our operation.”
Louis nodded. Their operation no longer existed and the chances for someone with Reagan’s vision in the next election were slim. “So did someone else computerize their Q files?”
“Virtually everything is these days. They scan the stuff in, compress it, and store it on optical disks. WORM technology—Write Once Read Many times. With this administration and their abuse of domestic intelligence, anything is possible.”
“That leaves Harper’s file?”
George sighed, “Someone went into the vault at Langley and copied it.”
“The only people with that kind of authority—“
“Work in the West Wing,” concluded George.
“That leaves the NSA or one of his aides,” replied Louis.
“Arthur somebody or other. Never did get a last name.” George rubbed his hands together. “Louis, this needs to be tended to. Spitting Q files over the Internet to hostile governments exposes too many secrets.”
“Agreed.” Secrets cut both ways. There were secrets both wanted kept from their own government as well as China and Iraq.
“You said the mission had been cancelled.”
Louis nodded. “Yeah, I went over to the White House last night to talk about the toxicology results on the body Jonas pulled out of the Gulf. A very lethal variant of VX is basically what we found.
“They told me a couple of things, George—crazy things. Evidently, one of our sub drivers sunk a Chinese boat this weekend. They were upset at the news. Then they explained that the mission was cancelled, and our men were write-offs.”
George Carnady’s features darkened. “Just like that—they give up on six men?”
Louis nodded.
“Harper’s not going to like that,” murmured George. He shook his head. “The nerve gas news—is it theCity Killer stuff we’ve been hearing about?”
“I think so. The NSA didn’t want the report, so I have it sitting in a safety deposit box.”
“Not your agency vault?”
Louis shook his head. “I started getting squeamish about doing that after the FBI Ready Team hit the Chinese safe house. Now you’re telling me they probably got Harper’s Q file out of the Agency vault, that’s not very reassuring.”
“Well, look at it this way. Suppose the NSA gives your boss a call.” He chuckled and added cynically, “A rare event these days. Tells him he’s looking for something on Jim. It’s your basic Peter Principle in action. The DCI is so used to being ignored by the White House, he’ll do anything for some attention. The DCI finds the Q file and rushes it over to the White House.”
“You think the NSA is the leak.”
George shook his head. He fished out the document on the wire transfers from Little Rock to the Cayman Islands. He spun the paper around and said, “No, the NSA isn’t dirty. He may be venal and stupid, but really dirty—” George shook his head.
“Arthur?”
“Yeah, that’s how I see it. You put someone in place to do the day-to-day chores. Imagine what must go through their hands over there. And we both know half those people couldn’t get security clearance as dogcatchers.
“The Chinese know all about their missing sub, or if they don’t, they will shortly.”
Louis considered aloud, “I wonder how much money is stashed away in this account?”
“Something to find out,” George suggested.
He examined the files on his desk and pulled his paper shredder close to the desk. “Louis, this stuff needs to disappear.” He started feeding pages through the machine. It churned the Q files into strips going one direction then crosscut the strips again.
“Perhaps the best thing to do is let Harper meet Arthur.”
“Yeah, let nature take its course.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The Road To Ash-Shabakah
Tuesday, November 18, 1997
1:00 A.M. (+3.00 GMT)
Hayes whistled tunelessly through his chapped lips and dust caked teeth. The world was a fuzzy green moonscape as he pushed the old truck down the four-lane highway towards the Kuwaiti border; a border too far away in a vehicle too limited to make the journey. They drove without lights making fifty klicks per hour. They would probably run out of gas before they ran out of night. He felt the weight from the last forty-eight hours in his shoulders and across the back of his neck. The little white No-Doze pills he popped like candy kept him going. There would certainly be a price to pay. Hopefully, it would not come due until after they reached the good guys.
Anderson sat half-crouched in the back of the lorry, his massive hands resting on the Barrett draped across his knees, his head slumped forward. The terrible day in the desert was over. The deadly work was accomplished, and now he slumbered dreaming of tall green pines, and crystal blue lakes—a graphite rod in his hands as he fished for walleye and northern pike. It was a wonderful dream, because he left out the pesky mosquitoes and even larger deer flies. Waves lapped gently against the side of the boat and rocked him to sleep.
Stillwell had finally conked out. He lay on the bed of the lorry next to the bodies of Burns and Kincaid—his mouth open and slack jawed. His dreams were tortured. He relived the firefight in the Data Center’s lower level. He marveled and shuddered as Hayes and Harper and he dropped into a choreographed fighting arrangement and fired without mercy into the oncoming Iraqis—punctuated by an awful silence. The only sound truly trapped in his mind was a spinning brass cartridge case; the stench of smokeless powder, and the slight haze from their firing was still pungent in his senses.
Harper leaned against the passenger side of the cab. His face bathed in a thin sheen of sweat. Even now, when they were certainly dehydrated from the battle, he wore a sweat drenched T-shirt and BDUs. The heavy body armor was still on, and his hand never really let loose of the Mossberg. The canvas bag filled with backup tapes was plopped between his feet on the floor of the truck. Strangely, his dreams were peaceful. The horror suggested by Colonel Duri was far from his mind. Instead, he imagined himself batting tennis balls across the yard and his huge houndIndiana Jones loping to retrieve them. It was a sunny summer Friday afternoon and the various toils for the week were retreating from his mind.
The plan was to head east towards Ash-Shabakah, then turn south into Saudi Arabia. There might be a military presence on the road as it crossed the line into a safer place, but Harper felt they could deal with the issue. The alternative was to attempt to move the truck over the rough ground straight for the border.
The plan had little room for contingencies. The promised helicopters andApache Gunships never materialized. The air support and additional troops waiting just over the horizon remained over the horizon somewhere. TheCome get me in a hurry signal beacon seemed more familiar to the Iraqi troops than their own people. No fast movers appeared to turn the tide. No choppers to bring out the dead and wounded, and their transport was a twisted mass of metal.
The plan really was not much of a plan at all. It was hope and luck wadded together with sweat and blood. As Hayes crested the next ridge, he blinked a couple of times. The normally deserted highway was ablaze with lights moving steadily westward. He shook his head, wondering if the liberal use of No Doze pills had finally begun exacting their pound of flesh.
He counted four sets of headlights moving towards them on all four lanes of the highway. He slowed the truck to a halt and tapped Harper on the shoulder.
Harper’s eyes snapped open and he stared blankly through the dusty truck windscreen. It took a few more moments for the scene to register and translate what his eyes saw into some semblance of thought. Harper slowly lifted his binoculars to his eyes and counted four Mercedes Benz tractor/trailers rolling towards them not more than two klicks distant.
“We need to get off the road,now ,” whispered Harper. His body was gearing up for a fight, perhaps the final one. Even as his breathing and heart rates increased, he was painfully aware of the many bumps and bruises protesting any sudden movement. The downtime after action had settled into cramps and twists. The fluid loss resulted in a dullness that hung heavily on his chest and upper arms.
“We won’t get very far in this,” commented Hayes.
“I know.”
The truck rumbled over the side of the road and into the uneven terrain. The springs and shock absorbers bounced them mercilessly. Hayes muttered something about original equipment.
Harper focused on the flatbeds behind the Mercedes Benz cabs. He made out the outline of armored personnel carriers. The tracks were lost in the shadows and distance, but the distinctive silhouette of a Soviet light armor vehicle was something you never forgot—especially when you have spent time half frozen in a ditch watching them pass.
“Take it as far and as fast a
s you can.”
“Why?” asked Hayes wondering if he really wanted an answer.
“Looks like they’re bringing some BTR-60s to the party,” replied Harper.
“Great,” snarled Hayes as he pushed the accelerator to the floor.
* * * *
Colonel Duri took a few short hops on his crutches. His wrist was splinted and a pressure cast had been applied to his injured leg. He had replaced his sidearm with one from the barracks in Nukhayb. The medic had pumped him full of saline solution and painkillers—enough to get him through the next twelve hours.
Twelve hours would determine whether he would return a hero to Baghdad, or if he would slither across the border into Saudi Arabia and disappear. Those were his only choices. There was a third outcome, but Duri preferred to put thoughts of the Salman Pak’s experiment stations from his mind.
He hobbled to a command vehicle, and waited as the two tractor/trailers left the Nukhayb barracks, each carrying an APC. The men to run those vehicles had been scratched together from the town’s militia and they had been told they were off to hunt Americans. Duri knew most had served in the war. Saddam’s requirements had not been strenuous: all males over fifteen and under seventy who were still breathing. Not one of them had ever fired their rifles in anger during the Gulf War. Those who did were cut down immediately by American gunships or buried under tons of sand when US Marine engineers bulldozed the sand berms they cowered behind.
Vehicles found in places like Nukhayb, where parts and maintenance needs are long past the end of the supply line, rely on the durability of the factory equipment. The American satellites could count the number of trucks and tanks, and American planners could assess this as capability, but the dirty secret of Saddam’s army was that much of it was still wrecked.
Duri had Harper in a box. It was simply a matter of time until the elements from Ash-Shabakah crushed him against the convoy moving from Nukhayb. Harper had no hope of escape; Duri had a plan with real assets and real people. Perhaps he would survive this crisis and receive the excellent medical care reserved for those select few in Saddam’s Iraq. The answer would come before dawn.
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