by Don Mann
There, Crocker met with Jaime Remington and the U.S. ambassador in the ambassador’s office and described what he and his men had found at both the naval base and the refugee camp next door.
Ambassador Andrew Saltzman was an older man with a headful of thick white hair. He looked like a Wall Street banker—soft around the middle, self-confident, meticulously groomed and dressed. The office was cool and dark, with dark blue curtains covering the windows. Crocker stared down at the Great Seal of the United States—an eagle clutching a scroll in its mouth—and waited for the ambassador’s response.
He took his time, grunting and pulling at his bottom lip. When he answered, he seemed equally upset by what the SEALs had seen at the refugee camp and by the discovery of the aging chemical weapons. Then he asked, “What provoked you to enter the camp in the first place?”
“We were at the naval base, sir. We heard gunfire and people screaming. I decided we should take a look.”
“Understandable. Commendable, too.”
“After receiving some resistance, we ended up arresting the three men who were ordering the torture and executions.”
“Where are they now?”
“They’re behind bars at NATO headquarters.”
“Good work. I’m going to call the NATO commanders tonight. First I want to make sure those prisoners are turned over to the NTC and made an example of. Then I’m going to demand that NATO inspect every single one of these so-called refugee camps. If Amnesty International ever gets wind of what’s going on, we’re in serious hot water.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thanks again.”
Crocker started to get up. But since the ambassador sounded sympathetic, he decided to ask him a question. “Sir, I mean no disrespect to anyone, but I’m unclear about who the enemy is here.”
“The enemy is anyone who is trying to destabilize the NTC.”
“Thank you, sir.” He got up.
Hardly a satisfactory answer. Weren’t the militiamen running the so-called refugee camp members of the NTC? But he didn’t say anything. He figured it would take him and his men another six days max to inspect the remaining weapons sites before they could return to Virginia. Until then they’d move carefully and keep a low profile.
Despite the fact that his stomach was growling, he stopped in to see Leo Debray before he left. Debray was sitting in his office with his assistant, Kat. As soon as they saw Crocker, their expressions grew graver.
“What’s wrong?” Crocker asked. “You don’t look glad to see me.”
Debray rose from his chair and draped an arm across Crocker’s shoulder. At six feet five he towered over him.
“Not at all. I spoke to your wife about an hour ago. Seems like the plane they were flying on experienced some mechanical problems. So they’re spending the night in Sirte.”
“Where’s that?”
“About three hundred miles east of here. Site of big oil fields, great beaches. They’re planning to catch another flight in the morning.”
“She’ll be in Tripoli tomorrow, then.”
“That’s correct.”
A doubt popped into Crocker’s head. He asked, “Is that normal? I mean, are local flights routinely canceled?”
“Since the war, airplane service has been extremely erratic.”
“Thanks.”
Chapter Eight
Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow.
—Albert Einstein
The next morning Crocker rose early, drove to the beach, and ran ten miles in the sand. Reminded him of BUD/S and of being back home in eastern Virginia. He passed men standing in the surf fishing, a family walking their dog, women covered from head to toe collecting shells. Despite what Volman had said about Libyans being the friendliest people in the world, the ones he saw seemed frightened and on edge.
Maybe on Saturday he’d take Holly to the Roman ruins at Leptis Magna, two hours east. According to Mancini it was a UNESCO World Heritage Site and remained one of the best-preserved Roman cities in the world, with a triumphal arch in honor of Emperor Septimius Severus, a theater built in the second century BC, a forum, baths, a basilica, and more. The city had been founded by the Phoenicians and became a prosperous Roman commercial center until it was sacked by a Berber tribe in AD 523.
They could pack a picnic lunch and spend the day exploring the ruins by themselves. Maybe stop for a swim afterward. Make love on the beach.
Back at the guesthouse he sat with his men in the living room listening to a briefing by Jaime Remington and an officer from the BND (Bundesnachrichtendienst, the German equivalent of the CIA)—a tall, fit woman named Sandra Lundquist. She reminded him of a taller, slimmer, slightly older Scarlett Johansson, which explained why Ritchie and Akil were staring at her like she was lunch.
Crocker listened as Lundquist spoke in a dry, almost monotone voice, a stark contrast to her ripe sexuality. He knew they would be leaving in an hour to inspect a chemical plant near the border with Niger, 450 miles south. She explained that the BND had already inspected the facility, which was a few kilometers north of the town of Toummo. Built in the 1980s with the help of a dozen German, Italian, Soviet, and French companies—including Pen Tsao, Ihsan Barbouti, and Imhausen-Chemie—the plant almost immediately raised international suspicion. The Libyan government claimed it was being used to manufacture medicine and other consumer products, but soon it was discovered that the German company Imhausen-Chemie had been shipping chemical weapons equipment to Libya, using Hong Kong as a cover.
On August 3, 1987, SPOT satellite pictures confirmed that the plant, then known as Pharma 150, had been completed. Considered the largest chemical weapons facility in the Third World, at full capacity it could produce one hundred metric tons of sarin nerve gas a year. The Libyans had also constructed a metal fabrication plant nearby to produce bombs and artillery shells designed specifically to deliver chemical agents.
“Didn’t the Reagan administration threaten to bomb Pharma 150 in the late eighties if it wasn’t shut down?” Mancini asked.
“You’re correct,” Sandra said. “But before they had a chance to, the Libyan government claimed that a fire set by the United States had destroyed the plant. However, satellite imagery indicated only minor damage.”
“So the fire was a hoax.”
“That was the conclusion of your CIA, yes. Again the Reagan administration threatened to destroy it. In late 1990, Colonel Muammar Gaddafi announced that he was shutting the plant down, but not before it had produced an estimated hundred tons of mustard blister agent and sarin nerve gas.”
“Sneaky bastard.”
“The site was reopened in 1995 as a pharmaceutical plant, jointly run with Egypt’s El Nasr Pharmaceutical Chemicals Company, designed to produce medicines, detergents, and cleansers,” Sandra continued. “But we concluded that it was still capable of making chemical weapons.”
Ritchie: “Why am I not surprised?”
“In 2004, Libya signed the Chemical Weapons Convention. But leaked classified cables from Gaddafi’s government proved that they were not in compliance and still possessed 9.5 metric tons of mustard gas, an unknown quantity of phosgene gas, and sarin nerve agent, most of which was stored at Pharma 150.”
Ritchie: “We should have leveled it back in the eighties.”
Crocker asked, “What’s the status of the facility now?”
“An Italian company called SIPSA Engineering has been pressuring the interim government to sign a contract for destruction of all chemical agents at Pharma 150. So far the contract hasn’t been signed,” Lundquist answered.
“So what’s our mission?” Crocker asked.
Remington leaned forward and answered, “One, make sure the chemical weapons stored there are secure. Two, inspect the nearby metal fabrication plant. We know that it hasn’t been open for years, but as far as I know, no one has eyeballed that particular plant in years, either.”
Lundquist said, “I’ve been there as rec
ently as two months ago. There’s nothing to see at the metal fabrication plant. Ruins, a shed that some locals use to store grain, not much.”
Remington: “Dr. Jabril won’t be going with you, but he drew up a map of the fabrication plant. He says he helped run it back in the nineties.”
“Where’s Lasher?” Crocker asked.
“He and the doctor are out interviewing some former Gaddafi scientists.”
“And the city is safe?” Crocker asked.
“Toummo? It’s hardly a city. Barely qualifies as a village. It’s a desert border town. NATO has a base there to guard the uranium mines nearby. There’ve been some recent skirmishes with local tribesmen, raids across the border, but the Polish commander, Major Ostrowski, is firmly in charge. He’ll be your host.”
As Akil, Mancini, Davis, and Ritchie loaded their gear into the Suburban for the trip to the airport, Remington pulled Crocker into the kitchen.
“Keep close to Ms. Lundquist,” Remington said.
“That won’t be a problem. But…why?”
“She was attacked in the old quarter a couple of nights ago. A group of young men tried to force her into a car. She fought them off but is still a bit shaken.”
The Royal Canadian Air Force CC-130 took off with a roar that afternoon with Crocker and Mancini in the first row of seats; Davis, Akil, and Ritchie occupying the middle row; and Sandra Lundquist stretched out in the back row by herself. The space behind her was filled with jugs of water, propane tanks, and other supplies for the NATO camp. When she wasn’t talking on her cell phone she was typing on her laptop, frustrating Akil and Ritchie’s attempts to engage her in conversation. So they started ribbing Davis about getting his wife pregnant twice in less than a year.
Ritchie asked, “You ever hear about pulling out?”
Akil: “He can’t. He’s too quick.”
Ritchie: “You’ve got to learn to prolong it, enjoy it. Right, Manny?”
Mancini: “What do you two know about heterosexual love?”
Then they tried to get her attention by telling off-color jokes.
“Hey, you hear the one about the woman at home who hears a knock on her front door? She answers and sees a man standing there who asks: ‘Do you have a vagina?’ She slams the door in disgust. The next morning she hears another knock on the door. It’s the same man who asks, ‘Do you have a vagina?’ She slams the door again. That night when her husband gets home, she tells him what happened the last two days. Her husband tells his wife in a loving and concerned voice, ‘Honey, I’m staying home from work tomorrow, in case this idiot shows up again.’ The next morning, sure enough, there’s a knock on the door. The husband whispers to the wife, ‘I’ll hide behind the door. If he asks you the same question, answer yes.’ She opens the door and sure enough, the same man is standing there. He asks again, ‘Do you have a vagina?’ She answers yes. The man replies, ‘Good. Then would you mind telling your husband to leave my wife’s alone and start using yours?’ ”
The men all laughed, Mancini so hard he started to choke.
Akil asked, “You like that one, Sandra?”
“Not bad.”
“You’re hard to please.”
Mancini: “How about this? There was this older guy who wanted to make his younger wife pregnant. So he went to the doctor to have a sperm count done. The doc tells him to take a specimen cup home, fill it up, and bring it back the next day. The next day the old guy comes back. The specimen cup’s empty and the lid’s still on it. The doctor asks, ‘What was the problem?’ The old guy says, ‘Well, I tried with my right hand…nothing. So I tried with my left. That didn’t work, either. Then my wife took over. She tried with her right, then her left, then her mouth. Each time…nothing. Then my wife’s friend tried. Right hand, left hand, mouth. Still nothing.’ Hearing this, the doctor said, ‘Wait a minute. Your wife’s friend tried, too?’ ‘That’s right,’ the old man answered. ‘None of us could get the lid off the specimen cup.’ ”
Sandra laughed this time and said, “I like that one better.”
Akil leaned over the seat and asked, “What about you, Sandra? You know any good jokes?”
Crocker was about to change the subject, but the German seemed game.
She shut her laptop and said, “Three guys go to a ski lodge, and there aren’t enough rooms, so they have to share a bed. In the middle of the night the guy sleeping on the right wakes up and says, ‘I just had this wild, very vivid dream about getting a hand job.’ The guy on the left says, ‘That’s funny. I had the same dream.’ The guy in the middle says, ‘Not me. I dreamt I was skiing.’ ”
They laughed, then Ritchie said, “The guy in the middle was Davis!”
Davis: “Grow up, Ritchie.”
“Never. Fuck you.”
Crocker: “Okay, guys. Settle down. We’re almost there.”
After a little more than four hours in the air, the CC-130 started to descend. All Crocker could see out the side windows was a thin ribbon of highway surrounded by desert. When the plane passed a few hundred feet over a collection of what looked like shacks on either side of the highway, Sandra said, “That’s it. That’s Toummo.”
Akil: “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Looks like the end of the earth, yes?”
As soon as the plane touched down on a landing strip alongside the NATO base, Polish soldiers arrived in trucks and started unloading the supplies. Crocker and the others exited out the side door and were greeted by a big man with enormous arms and a broad chest wearing an olive-green tank top and camouflage shorts.
He said in English, “I’m Major Ostrowski. Welcome to our base. Officially, it’s known as Base Toummo, but we call it Base Piasek Burza. Or you might prefer the English translation, Base Sandstorm.”
The camp housed two dozen soldiers and was roughly two hundred feet square, surrounded by a ten-foot-high wall of sand, gravel, rock, Conex containers, and sheets of metal. Inside were tents, mud buildings, lookout towers, picnic tables, electric generators, an oven, showers, a latrine, a pen filled with goats, and a barbecue pit.
The major showed them to their quarters—cell-like rooms in a mud-walled structure with a corrugated metal roof. Tiny windows allowed very little air to circulate, so even though the sun had set, the quarters continued to be stifling.
Two men were assigned to a room, except for Crocker and Sandra, who each got their own.
Crocker said, “You can give mine to someone else. I’d rather sleep outside.”
“Not a good idea,” the major answered, scratching the bristle of light brown hair on his square sunburned head. “For the past seven nights the tribesmen have been shelling us. Terrible aim, but maybe they get lucky.”
The major seemed to view the recent fighting as no big deal.
“Are these Tuareg tribesmen you’re talking about?” Crocker asked, knowing that they populated the area.
“Tuareg. Yes.”
“What do they want?”
“Control of the open-pit uranium mines, what else? That way they can sell the ore to Iran and China.”
“And the mines are close by?”
“About seventy kilometers northwest of us, past the town and deeper into Libyan territory.”
“That far?” Crocker asked.
“The terrain makes it hard to get to them if you don’t take the road. In my opinion, the camp’s too close. The dust is going to make all be radioactive by the time we leave. Already my penis glows in the dark.”
That night, after dining on roast goat and couscous, and watching the movie Iron Man dubbed in Polish, they retired to their quarters. Soon after Crocker lay down he heard the first mortar land and shake the ground. Shards of shrapnel rained onto the metal roof. Then the NATO troops returned fire with machine guns and artillery of their own.
Enemy shells continued to land intermittently through the night and into the morning breakfast of yogurt, goat cheese, figs, and tea. As Crocker and his team ate, Polish soldiers shouted inst
ructions to one another as they prepared their weapons and put on body armor.
Akil: “Imagine being assigned to this place.”
Ritchie: “I’ve been in worse.”
Akil: “When?”
Ritchie: “November 2004, Fallujah, Iraq. The whole damn city turned against us. We were getting attacked from all sides.”
Sandra looked miserable. She said the percussion of the mortar shells hurt her head.
After breakfast a sweaty, heavily armed Ostrowski led them to a Polish AMZ Dzik armored truck parked in the courtyard. He leaned toward Crocker and said, “Today we’re going to have some fun with these asshole tribesmen.”
The major introduced them to a Polish corporal who said he knew the way to the chemical plant. But a half hour later, as they sped north on the highway through the dusty, sun-baked town of Toummo, Sandra told him she thought he’d missed the turnoff.
The driver turned the vehicle around and veered left on a dirt road that led them past a little school, primitive houses, a pen filled with camels and goats, and up a gradual incline where the road seemed to end.
“Keep going,” Sandra instructed.
When they reached an eighty-foot mound of rock, dirt, and sand, Sandra told the driver to steer around it. On the other side they met a ten-foot wall of rock and sand.
Sandra said, “Stop here. This is where we get out.”
Akil: “You sure?”
There was nothing but sand everywhere they looked. She walked ahead, all business, her tight black shorts accentuating her long legs and feminine curves.
Ritchie leaned toward Crocker and whispered, “What do you think?”
Crocker shrugged, “She seems to know where she’s going.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
They watched her climb the ten-foot wall of dirt, then turn back and wave at them to join her.
Upon reaching the top, Crocker looked down and saw a large compound that had been dug into the earth. The whole plant was surrounded by walls of sandbags. It contained at least a dozen buildings, distillation and cooling tanks, and a concrete road that ran the length of the site. The road and roofs of the buildings had been painted with desert camouflage so they would be hard to see from above. Reminded him of a scene from the movie Andromeda Strain: perfectly preserved buildings, but no people.
