by Tom Haase
“Captain, this could really hurt our chances of getting at them before they move or set off the bomb," said Peter O'Leary. Gary and Lucien were both nodding their heads in agreement. Bridget put her head down and turned away, shoulders sagging.
“They know there is a strong possibility these assholes have a nuke.” Bridget stood as she expressed her disbelief at the delay. “Not only is it a probability, but based on the conversation we heard at the restaurant in Beirut, it is a friggin’ fact. We know these bastards are going to set off an atomic weapon. What were they thinking back in Washington?” she asked. “Where is the goddamn airplane?” She pounded her fist into an open palm.
“Who says they can think?” Lucien got up as he said this and smacked himself on the forehead.
"I'm going to make some telephone calls, and then I'm going to talk to the base commander and see if I can convince him that we need to have this airplane for our mission. You know he's going to tell me where I can stuff it, but at least I can try," Matt said. He got up and looked at each one of them individually with an assurance that he would do his best to get this team moving today. He went off to find the base commander. He returned an hour later with the anticipated rejection.
The men went off to their billets for the night. Matt had been waiting for an opportunity to talk to Bridget and this looked like the time and the place.
“Bridget, you got time for a drink?” Matt asked, as she headed for her quarters.
She stopped, looked back over her shoulder and nodded.
“Why don’t we meet for a drink and some food in thirty minutes after we get cleaned up?” Matt suggested.
Again the nod.
This would be his first real opportunity to sit down and talk with her since this entire operation had gotten underway. Her actions in Beirut and the way she handled herself had impressed him. He believed in the separation of officer and enlisted but something was starting to nag at his emotional strings that had not vibrated since 9/11. They rendezvoused at the club thirty minutes later.
“What’ll you have to drink?” Matt asked.
“Just a glass of wine.”
Matt ordered a chardonnay and a gin and tonic for himself and carried the drinks to the table.
“Jesus, this is a pretty grim place to have a drink. Early stone age décor,” Bridget said.
They moved to a small table in the corner and sat down. The room held four tables and the actual bar comprised a short five feet in length. The ambiance lacked any semblance of a real drinking establishment, having a few bar stools, and the walls were done in battleship gray. A few pictures of archeological sites from the nearby crusader castle hung on two walls. The lights were low and the dining area occupied the next room off the bar.
"Matt, do you think we can get there before they get away?" Bridget asked.
"I only hope we can,” Matt said.
“Remember that short mission we were on together into Iraq? We should’ve gotten them all, but the lame brains in our bureaucracy screwed up there just as they’re doing here on this mission,” Bridget stated. After that mission they had shared a certain attraction for one another, really an unspoken bond. A tie or understanding often developed between people who shared combat together.
“But you gotta admit the intel so far has been excellent,” Matt said, “and it gives us an edge that they don’t even know we have. My guess is eventually they’ll figure out how we are able to get ahead of them—especially if we’re successful in executing this jump and achieve surprise.”
"Well, there's nothing we can do except sit and have dinner. We’ll get rested up before we take off tomorrow. I just hope that promised airplane shows. I think this might be my last mission, Matt. The kind of things I'm seeing here with this operation are disillusioning me." Bridget fingered her glass of wine as she said this, and raised a drink towards Matt and said, "Cheers.” They clinked glasses.
"What do you mean, Bridget?" He looked at her with a certain amount of concern showing in his scrunched up eyebrows.
"You know, we're busting our asses to find these guys. We’ve all the equipment, all the intelligence, and then we’ve a bureaucracy that can’t respond fast enough to let us get these guys. Just think if we could've taken our own airplane from Cyprus and gone directly to that place in Saudi. That city, what's it called, ahhh… Ayun, we could already be there," Bridget said as she put her drink down.
"Yeah, that would be great. We don't have that ability right now,” Matt said. “If I had my way, and I had the money, I would take our team and go after these guys with the intelligence sources the United States possesses. We could get them every time, because we could be quick enough. The bad guys make too many mistakes, our system is too cumbersome, and we’re just not fast enough using our present methods." Matt tilted his glass back-and-forth; the ice cubes rattled as he slowly set it down on the table.
"If we had such a unit I would join, but I think I'm going to get out of the army when I get back from this mission. My time is up. I'm just tired of all the bullshit above us, and we, our team, doesn’t seem to get the support we need to accomplish our mission." Bridget’s manner indicated she was through talking on that subject.
Matt nodded agreement, wondering what made this beautiful young woman take on the mission of going after and killing terrorists in the first place. He had his own personal reasons, but what made her tick? He liked Bridget, maybe even a little bit more than like. A true soldier, she always performed her duties as a professional. He decided to control his growing feelings for her. In another life, he would have pursued her with all his might. Perhaps when she left the service.
Bridget asked as if she were reading his thoughts, “Why did you get into this team? What made you want to do this?”
Matt told her of the events on the fateful day in September 2001when he lost his wife. He had never told anyone on the team about it.
“My God, I’m sorry. I never knew. You keep things under wraps pretty well. Is it too difficult to talk about it? Can you tell me about your wife?” She reached over and covered his hand with hers. He didn’t withdraw his.
“We were married for three years. She was my whole life and we did everything together. It took me a long time to stop feeling physical pain every time I thought of her. Now I live with the loss, and the pain is not there anymore, but the memory lingers.”
“After that tragedy, how did you get into DIA so quickly after 9/11?” She removed her hand.
“It will take a little while to tell you so why don’t we go in and order dinner first?” They both ordered steaks medium and baked potatoes, another glass of wine for Bridget and one for himself. Then Matt settled back in his chair and began the tale of his entrance into the counterterrorist team at DIA.
“A week after the attack on 9/11 the Pentagon held a memorial service for the victims at the Pentagon. My father, who runs an extremely profitable hedge fund, came down from New York for the service.
“Afterwards, as we were having lunch, he said, ‘Son, you can get out now. No one would blame you for leaving the service. Come and work with me. I can get you a job in the investment world that will pay a fortune and I can mentor you to success. You have a brilliant mind. Give this up. They have plenty of officers.’ I vaguely comprehended what Dad was saying at the time. Later, I wanted to scream at him and to tell him to stay out of my life. My God, my wife was gone, our country had been attacked, and Dad was offering me money as compensation. Dad always thought my service in the Army was a waste of time and talent.”
He sat back and relaxed.
“Did you have a good relationship with your parents other than his disapproval of your Army service?” asked Bridget. They both took a few bites of their food before Matt answered.
“I think so. Before Mom died, it was better. Dad sank into his work after she passed and he didn’t seem to notice me. So after the memorial service, I had to get a grip on life. What would I do? Was Susan’s death something to get over
and get on? I had to find my own answers. I knew right then was not the time to make any decisions. I would wait, think, take time to decide, and not make any choices until I was sure of what I really wanted.” They were both enjoying the food and Matt ordered a refill for their wine glasses before he continued.
“Colonel Forsman had joined us for coffee after lunch and heard Dad’s comments. Later he asked me if I had been tempted to take my father’s offer. He said the military wouldn’t put up any barriers to my getting out if that’s what I wanted.”
Matt remembered the colonel taking an interest in him as a young ROTC cadet at the university. He completed his master’s degree in international relations after graduating the year before with a perfect four point undergraduate degree in economics. They had both left the university that June—Matt to go to basic officer course at Fort Benning, Georgia, and Forsman got assigned to the Pentagon.
“My response to him was that I didn’t know. I had to take some time to think. He wished me well at parachute training and told me to call if he could ever help.” Matt sat back and folded his arms. Then he continued after taking a sip from his water glass.
“Over the next weeks at airborne training at Fort Benning, I took the time to come to grips with myself, to form my goals in life, and to evaluate my father’s offer and decide whether to accept it or follow another course of action. It was not easy as it would determine my future.” They finished eating.
Then Bridget asked, “How long did it take for you to get the answers you were looking for?”
“Well, the answers came gradually. You see, my father’s offer would take me out of the military. There would be plenty of money. But I also had to think of my daughter. She lives in Leesburg with her aunt and uncle.” Matt held back an unheard sigh when he thought of his daughter.
“My God. You have a daughter? Man, you do have your secrets. Did that play in your decision?”
“Yes, but I couldn’t use that as an escape. I couldn’t avoid the real dilemma. Was I going to let others die, others like Susan, other firefighters or police, and innocent victims like the ones who perished in New York on that awful day? Could I give up and abandon my country to a world of maniacal, diabolical, lunatic jihadists or Islamic Fundamentalists? That was the burning issue I had to decide. How would this help my daughter by what I decided?” Matt sat back up and was lost in his own thoughts for a few seconds.
“So after completing the three weeks of airborne training, I called Forsman. During the course of the conversation, I said I had heard on the grapevine that there existed a secret counterterrorist section in the Defense Intelligence Agency. I told him I wanted to be on one of the teams and asked what it would take to get there.”
“Why didn’t you go for something like Delta force or the airborne units?” queried Bridget.
“I didn’t want a regulars army unit since it is designed to conduct conventional strike and destroy operations. I wanted to be on a team dedicated to eradicating terrorists. My dad’s country club invitation could wait.” Matt stopped and suggested they adjourn to the bar.
“I must be boring you with all this. I should never have discussed it with you.” Matt felt like a burden had moved off his shoulders talking to this woman. She seemed to understand him.
“No. Not at all. I want to hear the end. My story is very different, but not tonight. Please go on.” They ordered two diet cokes at the bar.
“Well, Colonel Forsman helped me by cutting through the red tape of the selection process. Six months after the September events, I started training for entry into a counterterrorist unit. Ranger training for three months was the beginning. Then Pathfinder training to learn how to set up drop zones for paratroopers or landing sites for aircraft. Then, even though I had studied Arabic before, they sent me to the Defense Language Institute for an immersion course, and then I stayed on for an additional three-month course in Iranian Farsi. When this was completed, more anti-terrorist training at Ft. Bragg. The three years it took to complete this sequence of training passed quickly. So,” he sighed, “you know my life history now. Next time it’ll be your turn. Seems they have put us together as a team and it’ll be good if we get to know each other.”
“My pleasure, and I agree. Right now, however, I suggest we adjourn for tonight and get a good night’s rest before our mission,” she said, giving him a gracious smile.
“Okay, I agree. It’s time to get some shuteye. Let’s go.”
Walking back to their rooms, Matt sensed they were developing a good strong friendship, which might be a critical factor in the coming days. Then again, it might be more.
“What are you going to do when you get out?” he inquired. He desired to know this if he planned to continue his relationship with this woman.
“Haven’t made any definite plans. I’ll see what turns up. I’ve always been interested in archeology. I might take that path—university, degrees, after I get out.”
Saying good night, they went to their rooms. The conversation had disturbed Matt as it brought up some old memories and some new thoughts that he needed to explore. Also some feelings he thought were dead. He knew he would have to do something about the situation with his daughter or she would grow up knowing him as a spastic weekend visitor instead of a father.
* * *
OFFICE OF GENERAL BERGERMEYER
2:35 P.M.- 25 OCTOBER
As Strike Team One went to sleep in Turkey, the phone rang in the office of the Director of the Center. The secretary stepped into her office.
“General you have a call from the Israeli Embassy, a Major General Samuel Harnel.”
Mary Jean picked up the receiver and said, “This is General Bergermeyer.”
“One moment and I’ll connect you with General Harnel,” said an aide.
“General Bergermeyer, Samuel Harnel here. We’ve not had a chance to meet since you took over the Center. I hope to correct that very soon.”
“I look forward to that,” replied Mary Jean, waiting for the real reason to emerge as she guessed it was not a social call out of the blue.
“The reason I have called is one of my colleagues arrived in Washington late last night from Israel and I believe he would like to meet with you rather urgently. May I put him on the phone?”
“Of course,” came Mary Jean’s reply, now with her interest peaked.
“Hello, General Bergermeyer, I am Brigadier David Seigel. I’m your counterpart in the Israeli Defense Force. I hope you don’t mind this presumption, but I need to talk with you right away and not in either of our offices. Could we have a drink somewhere this afternoon?”
“I would be delighted. Shall we say Fadó’s in Chinatown at four? That’ll be before the after-work crowd arrives.”
“Until four,” said Siegel and the phone went silent.
A few minutes after four, Mary Jean entered Fadó. Although the dimly lit bar appeared quite dark after leaving the bright sunshine outside, she had little difficulty in identifying the Israeli. Cream collar shirt and blue wool slacks, a dark face with round black eyes topped by a receding gray hairline. And when she approached, he looked at her and smiled, a nice smile.
“Hello, General,” Mary Jean said.
“Please, David.”
“Mary Jean, pleased to meet you.” They shook hands.
“Would you like a drink?”
“Of course. I would like a vodka and tonic to ease out of the office atmosphere.”
“I’ll get that and I’ll have a Guinness. I developed a taste for it in the United Kingdom while spending some time at the London School of Economics.”
Brigadier Siegel went over to the bar and ordered the drinks. Fadó’s was an Irish establishment in the Chinatown area of the nation’s capital. The décor, similar to a pub in the old country with concessions to the tastes of the American drinking public, reminisced of the old sod. The size of the public standing area encompassed an area far greater than that found in Ireland. The area around the bar spaci
ous and cozy tables with comfortable chairs sat on the side of the room. One could have a private conversation at one of the tables and not worry about someone overhearing, especially before the bar filled up around five o’clock.
David returned to the table and set the drinks down. He picked his up and so did Mary Jean. Since they were in an Irish pub they both clicked glasses and said the Irish, “Slainté.”
Mary Jean opened the conversation. “You sounded quite serious on the phone. I didn’t know I had an exact counterpart in the IDF. What’s up?”
“I arrived here last night on a prior planned visit to assist the Defense Attaché on a project. Just before I left Tel Aviv yesterday, I learned some interesting information that I think I need to share with you. You realize, of course, this conversation never takes place, no attribution as to source.”
Mary Jean nodded her understanding and took a sip of her drink. She appraised the man in front of her. He was an intense one and from her gut feeling she sensed him someone who had been out there and done the real intelligence work. She came to the conclusion to trust him.
“The sources of what I am going to relate to you, Mary Jean, are my own assets. Therefore, I have no doubt on their veracity. One of my deep cover agents called a few days ago to report that he firmly believes a quantity of weapons grade uranium has been stolen from the nuclear plant in Iran. He is someone we have had in place to monitor things at their plant. It wasn’t until I received the second piece of intelligence that I connected the events.” He stopped talking, took a sip of his stout beer, and again, with purpose, looked around the pub. Satisfied no one currently observed them, he continued.
“There was a gun battle in Beirut a few days ago in which a major terrorist leader was presumably killed. I know you know this, Mary Jean.” He waited for a response.
“David, we’re getting along just fine. You know that I read the intelligence reports of what happened in Beirut.”
“Okay, but I’m hoping to establish an exchange relationship here. Anyhow, the terrorist was not killed on the spot, and I know it was by an American team. I think it was your operation.”
