The Mercenary Option Read online

  The legacy of Desert One was on everybody’s mind. It was a tactical blunder and a foreign policy disaster. And it was the last time American troops were on Iranian soil. Oddly enough, that failed mission had led to the creation of the U.S. Special Operations Command, the very forces that would go in on the ground to recover the two nukes.

  “It’s doable,” Barbata continued, “but we’ll need some time to brief the teams and do the final planning. If something goes wrong, the comparison to Desert One will be obvious to the international community. And let’s face it, it could damage the coalition we’ve built to go into Iraq. We can probably get in and out in a single night, but everything would have to go perfectly. And it may be hard to hide the fact that we were there.”

  The President paused for a long moment before speaking, turning to Armand Grummell as he did.

  “There is another option, one that was not available to us until a few weeks ago. I’m at a loss to tell you exactly how it came about, so I’ll let Armand do that. Armand?”

  Armand Grummell appeared slightly taken aback. This was not the case. Although the President had given him no advanced warning, he fully expected to be called on to do this.

  “There is a force in place that is prepared to take action in this matter, on the ground, with little or no attribution to the United States government. It is, for want of a better term, a mercenary force, composed of foreign nationals and trained in special-operations disciplines.” Grummell went on to provide a very sketchy outline of the IFOR, carefully omitting any reference to its location, source of funding, or founder. “I am being purposefully oblique about the details, but I can assure you that this is not some corporate shell set up by my agency or one of our contractors. Also—and you may find this difficult to believe, so I will ask you to take it on faith from myself and the Commander in Chief—this capability, if you will, comes at no cost, monetarily or politically.”

  There was a moment of silence before both Powers and Barbata spoke at once.

  “You mean there is some kind of a philanthropist out there providing counterterrorist services?” managed Powers.

  “And they can conduct long-range, direct-action covert missions?” added Barbata.

  “You are both correct,” Grummell replied. “Unconventional as it may sound, it is an option worth considering.”

  “Special operations are not child’s play,” Barbata said. “How do we know they handle a mission of this complexity?”

  “I’m given to understand they have recruited the very best,” Grummell replied, “from your special-operations components as well as from my agency.”

  “But if we know where the bombs are headed,” said Jim Powers, “why not let them cross into Afghanistan? We have the resources there and a mandate to conduct military operations.” Powers was desperately looking for a way for any military action to occur someplace other than on Iranian soil.

  “And if it is to be a special operation,” Barbata persisted, “wherever it is, we have our own guys; we know with some certainty what they can and cannot do. And they can do a lot. Those men have worked long and hard to be ready for this. If it’s to be a ground action, they deserve the chance to go in; they’ve earned it.”

  Grummell sighed and cleared his throat. This, he knew from past experience, was the kind of debate President St. Claire wanted; it would form the basis for his final decision.

  “All that you say is true, gentlemen, but a few considerations would seem to favor action by a third party. First of all, the border area between Iran and Afghanistan is a warren of smuggling trails and secret mountain passes. It carries the highest volume of illegal opium in the world. Now that it is infested with al Qaeda and the remnants of the Taliban, it is doubly dangerous. Close to three thousand Iranian Republican Guards, or Pasdaran, have been killed along that border in the last ten years, and they have yet to blunt the transhipment of drugs. Our nuclear terrorist will be hard to find in there, and harder still coming into the plains east of the Afghan border.” He was speaking patiently, as if he were lecturing undergraduates. “Secondly, we must consider our target. The best chance for a nonnuclear event is to surprise them and recover the weapons. But we must never forget that these are nuclear weapons in the hands of dangerous men—fanatical perhaps, but very disciplined and capable. There is always the chance that they would detonate the weapon if our surprise is not complete or the force not overwhelming. If we were to have a nuclear event and a number of Americans were involved, they would be vaporized in the blast. These men have families; how will we explain it to them? There are also the supporting military elements and units who will know that we sent those men on the mission. Denial would be risky and even shameful. And the Iranians will probably claim that it was our weapon that was detonated, especially if our people are involved.” He was silent a moment, but what they were all thinking had to be articulated. “Our best chance of catching them is in Iran, and our best chance of minimizing collateral damage is to catch them in the open wasteland of the central Iranian plateau, well west of the Afghan border. If there is a nuclear event, what is lost and what is gained? The pipeline is safe, and we, along with the rest of the world, will demand an explanation of why stolen Pakistani weapons were detonated in Iran.” He did not have to articulate that we could take this position only if no American military personnel were involved. Again, a silence held them in check until Grummell continued in a soft voice. “Our choice of action will be neither easy nor pleasant. I ask only that you consider all the factors.”

  Grummell lowered his head as if to signify he had finished. He was polishing his glasses in a firm, deliberate manner. This was not lost on the President, nor the Secretaries of State and Defense.

  Monday afternoon, December 30,

  Baghin, Iran

  Khalib and Mugniyah pulled through the open door and into the repair bay. The owner of the garage had been paid to empty his facility and make himself available to house and service only two vehicles. He was paid in cash more than he would see in a year of patching up old Toyotas and Peugeots. Khalib leapt from the big Mercedes sedan in which he was riding, not bothering to close the car door.

  “Why is that door open?” he demanded.

  “It is hot, and the fumes, we have no way of—”

  “Put it down immediately.” His tone of voice brooked no reply. The garage owner hurried to close the roll-up door.

  Mollified, Khalib walked around the vehicles and nodded his approval. They would do. The Explorers had been rumpled with crowbars and sledges and painted—one tan and the other a dull white. Metal roof racks with wooden slats had been fitted to each vehicle, and there were extra gas cans and spare tires lashed in place. A few hours on the road, and they would look much the same as other vehicles forced to exist in a harsh, remote area and drive exclusively on unimproved roads. But for the purpose at hand, both vehicles were in perfect mechanical condition.

  On one side of the garage, a half dozen very dangerous-looking men squatted in a circle, several of them with AK-47 assault rifles across their laps. They were dressed in what might have passed for Pashtun tribal garb, or for that matter, that of any number of clans that lived along the Iranian-Afghan border. These were hard men whose lives were bound by clan loyalty and violence. The prospect of killing Russians or Uzbeks or Americans was only a little more appealing than killing someone from a rival tribe. They gave their allegiance freely and fiercely to the head of their clan, and that man was Khalib. They cared for nothing else, save for their weapons or perhaps their sons, if they had them and if they were still alive. There were table and chairs nearby, but these men had little use for furniture. On the other side of the garage, as if to be as far away from the fierce tribesmen as possible, Moshe Abramin and Mirza Riaz waited in a little alcove. The preparation of the vehicles for extended desert travel and the presence of these fierce fighting men had curbed their zeal. Khalib had continued to treat them with respect, but it was now clear to them that they were
captives as well as participants in this venture. Khalib conferred with the owner of the garage and with his men before addressing Moshe and Mirza.

  “It will be dark in a few hours, and we will leave. Our struggle asks many things of us, and I am going to ask one more of you. Our plans call for the two weapons to travel separately. It would be a tragedy if, after all your courage and sacrifice, our plans came to nothing because we failed to do all in our power to ensure success. The Americans will be looking for us, if they are not yet doing so. By sending the bombs on two separate routes, we double our chances to strike a blow for our cause. Do you understand this?”

  The hard look in Khalib’s eyes conveyed equal measures of resolve and deadly firmness. They could do nothing but agree with him.

  “And because the two weapons will travel by separate routes, I must ask that the two of you also travel separately, one of you with each bomb. Will you do this?” Again they could do nothing but concur. To both of these academics, it was becoming clear that their fate was in the hands of this fierce and charismatic Afghan.

  “Excellent. I would expect nothing less from two warriors who have served God so nobly and with such dedication. Were the materials you requested satisfactory?”

  “Yes, Khalib.” Moshe replied. When they had met in Lahore, Moshe had given Khalib a list of tools and electrical components they would need to make timing and command detonation devices for the bombs, as the specifications to have the steel casings fabricated. The weapons, crude as they were, were designed for missile warheads. A small radar in the nose cone of the rocket was programmed to send an electrical impulse to the weapon when the warhead reached a certain altitude on its descent trajectory. At the prescribed altitude, the weapon would detonate. Moshe had asked for the materials he would need to build electronic initiators for the weapons. They were not complicated—a simple digital clock mechanism and a battery that together would deliver the proper electronic pulse at some future time, or on command. But they had to be compatible with the electrical components of the bombs’ conventional explosives. Moshe also had to bypass the safety devices that had been designed into the weapons’ components.

  “And were you able to mate the timing devices to the explosives?”

  “It has been done. All that remains is to marry the explosive and nuclear components, along with the neutron catalysts. The weapons will then be ready for detonation. The timer is a simple device. Once the triggers are activated, the timing mechanism is no more difficult to set than an alarm clock.”

  “Excellent. Then I want you to prepare one of the weapons for final detonation—all that is required except for the setting of the clock.”

  “M-may I ask why only one?”

  “Of course,” Khalib replied. He spoke to them as equals—fellow conspirators. Khalib Beniid was a skilled and compelling man, a natural leader whom men willingly followed, whether they were mountain fighters or urban engineers. “One of your bombs will travel by car to the target, so it can be assembled here, driven to its destination, and set in place. The second weapon will travel by car only so far, then it will have to be loaded on pack animals for a journey through the mountains. Only at the end of our mountain trek can you complete the final assembly.”

  Moshe nodded. He had told Khalib that the completed bombs would be far more delicate than the separate components, if for no other reason than that they had only the containers for the subassemblies—the containers they were in when they were taken from Kahuta. And there was also the weight factor. A single weapon weighed close to two hundred kilos—well over four hundred pounds. The separate components would travel much better unassembled.

  “So which weapon do you want us to assemble?”

  “The plutonium bomb.”

  That evening, just after dark, the two Ford Explorers left the garage with Khalib, Moshe, and the six mountain tribesmen, headed for Kerman. By sunrise the next day they were well clear of the city and headed northwest toward the Dasht Lut wilderness area and the Afghan border. They traveled on the main roads, but whenever possible skirted towns and villages, sometimes carefully working their way through the sand-covered wasteland. They made slow but steady progress and traveled mainly at night.

  The sedan, a dated Mercedes S430, did not leave the garage until the following evening. In the trunk, swathed in many layers of foam cushioning material, was a fully assembled plutonium-fueled atomic bomb. There were four men in the vehicle. A driver and a bodyguard in front kept a careful eye on the road, while Imad Mugniyah and a senior MIS officer rode in the back. They took the main highway southwest that led to the Pakistan-Iranian border. The Mercedes was some fifty miles southwest when a raging fire swept through the garage, burning it to the foundation. Two corpses were later found in the rubble, charred beyond recognition. An investigation soon revealed that one of them was most probably the owner of the garage. The second was no one they could identify from the immediate area. He was probably, a local resident offered, one of the mysterious group of men who occupied the garage before it was destroyed.

  Early Tuesday morning, December 31,

  Honolulu

  United Flight 907, direct service from Honolulu to Singapore, was a full flight. No one paid attention to Garrett Walker or Bijay Gurung as they boarded. Nor did anyone seem to notice a quiet group of men who boarded in twos and threes behind them, dressed in blue Nike jogging suits, most with rumpled gear bags over their shoulders as carry-on baggage. Two of them had net bags holding a half dozen soccer balls. They were a Burmese soccer club returning to Rangoon after a tournament in the States. There were another ten or so with them, dressed like students and tourists. A 747 headed for Singapore had enough Asian diversity to easily swallow twenty-eight men who, but for the way they dressed, looked like members of the same extended family. And those who were dressed alike had a reason to do so. They easily melded into the tide of Malays and Indonesians on board. Flight 907 left Hawaii Tuesday morning and touched down at Paya Lebar Airport outside Singapore on Wednesday afternoon, January 1. Several white vans were waiting for the team and their bags. Another two vans collected the tourist-student contingent and followed along. They didn’t have far to go. The vans made their way to a rented general aviation hangar with a Gulfstream parked inside, a white aircraft with no windows and “The Joseph Simpson Jr. Foundation” neatly blocked on the tail. As soon as they arrived, the Gurkhas set to it with a will, unloading their operational gear and weapons from the corporate jet. They were an exceedingly happy group, like a throng of school children on a zoo outing. There was the prospect of going to war.

  Singapore is a semi-police state, and the official religion is commerce. Drugs are prohibited under penalty of death, and firearms are not far behind. The hangar space was under lease by the Joseph Simpson Jr. Foundation and had served as a transshipment point for foodstuffs and medical supplies. A great many much-needed relief shipments for Central Asia and West Africa had gone through this hangar. Given the active involvement of the foundation, it was a busy facility. There was no reason to think that this was not just another high-priority shipment of generators for Bangladesh or water-purification equipment for Tanzania. Yet the men worked as quickly; the sooner they were on their way, the better. Janet Brisco stood at the boarding hatch with a clipboard. She, Steven, and Dodds LeMaster had made the trip in the Gulfstream with the equipment and weapons—Hawaii to Ponepe to Singapore. Garrett approached Steven, and they shook hands warmly.

  “Any problems?”

  “Just the airline food,” Garrett replied. “How about yourself?”

  “Just Janet fidgeting. We lost communications for about twenty minutes over New Guinea, and I thought she was going to go up and choke one of the pilots. The pilots were also keeping a close eye on their fuel state. The last jump was over four thousand miles, and we were at maximum gross weight.”

  “Any changes?”

  “Nothing. Langley has promised to let us know the minute those SUVs are on the move. They�
��ve pulled the drones out, but the satellite coverage is quite good and getting better. This has the very highest priority, and more than a few birds have been reorbited to keep the area under surveillance. We’ll know within the half hour if those Explorers are on the road. Still no word as to the military options, but I have a feeling we will get the nod on this one.” Steven smiled. “They don’t want any attribution in Iran, not with Iraq on the horizon. And they don’t want another Desert One.”

  “Makes sense,” Garrett replied. In many ways he felt sorry for the special-operations forces he knew would now be in play. Many of the individual operators he would know personally. More than a few he had trained for this very kind of mission. He himself had waited too many times with a platoon of SEALs in some remote location, locked and loaded—waiting for the call that never came. “How about Owens?”

  Steven glanced at his watch. “He’s in the air now and will be waiting for us on the other end. He says he has what he needs and he’ll have it in place. Our bird should be here within the hour. If we’re lucky, we’ll be in position before those weapons are on the move. If not, we’ll still be in good shape to take action. If we get the call.”

  “Things are happening fast,” Garrett said. “Too fast, maybe?”

  “We’ll see,” Steven replied.

  Bijay approached and politely greeted Steven. “Everything arrived in good order and we are ready in all respects.” Bijay and the other Gurkhas were now dressed in tan trousers and matching open-collared shirts, but they moved with a little too much purpose to pass as aid workers. Parked in the rear of the hangar were two communications vans with mission support electronic suites, identical to the ones in Kona. They had been pre-positioned here for just such a contingency.

  Garrett turned to Steven. “Everything ready on the other end.”

  “As far as I know,” Steven said; then, with a smile, “Our federal liaison officer will be there to help with any problems that may arise.”