Authors: Richard Herman
“What is it?” Tel whispered.
“Don’t whisper like that,” Kamigami said. “It travels too far. Just speak in a low voice.” He paused to let that lesson register. “It’s a military base camp. A big one.” He sat down and made himself comfortable. “We’ll move out when it’s dark. Now we get some rest. Wake me in an hour, and don’t let me snore.”
Tel came awake with a jolt. Kamigami’s hand was over his mouth. “It’s time,” Kamigami said. He handed Tel a pair of night-vision goggles and helped him adjust the straps. “You lose a lot of depth perception, so go slowly at first or you’ll get a stick in your face.” Kamigami moved slowly until Tel was comfortable with the goggles. Then he moved quickly, heading down the path and away from the base camp. He relied on his GPS to guide them to the body that was still swinging from the tree.
Kamigami covered the hole where the blood had pooled and cut the body down. He carried it back to the path and again strung it up by its ankles. “It’s blocking the path,” Tel said.
“That’s the idea,” Kamigami murmured. He took a few sips of water and told Tel to do the same. “Rest. We’re going to be moving very fast the next few hours. You up to it?”
“Do I have a choice?”
Kamigami shook his head as they sat down. When he judged that Tel was ready, he stood up and tightened the straps on his rucksack. Then he unsnapped the side pocket, and the MP5 fell into his hand. He slipped in a clip and charged a round. “Make sure your shoelaces are tight,” he said. He carefully inspected the boy. “Ready?” Tel nodded, and Kamigami put the gold whistle to his lips.
“What are you doing?” Tel asked.
“Sending a message,” Kamigami replied.
“Which is?”
“Vampire.” Kamigami gave a long blast on the whistle and moved out, setting a blistering pace.
Washington, D.C.
Friday, July 30
The spook sitting in the national security adviser’s office was a nondescript man, five feet ten inches tall, in his late forties, hunch-shouldered, and slightly balding. He was a man people passed every day and never saw. Franklin Bernard Butler was also a lieutenant general in the Air Force, the chief of a shadowy organization quartered on the mezzanine of the Pentagon’s basement, and an operational genius in the netherworld of covert intelligence. Mazie looked up from the thin folder she was reading, a very worried expression on her face. “Bernie, how in the world did you get this?”
“The old-fashioned way.”
Mazie arched an eyebrow. “Which is?”
“Spying.”
“I was afraid you were going to say ‘work,’ which is something the Boys never do.” The “Boys” was shorthand for Butler’s group, known only as the Boys in the Basement. She gave a very audible sigh. Levity was not going to lessen the reality of what she was looking at. “How good is this?”
“It doesn’t get any better,” Butler told her. Although he trusted the national security adviser, he wasn’t about to reveal how the Boys had recruited three moles in Iraq during the Persian Gulf War in 1991. The moles had been left behind to burrow into Saddam Hussein’s infrastructure, and now all three were talking. “The president needs to know,” Butler said, telling her the obvious.
Mazie looked at the elegant carriage clock on her desk. Again she sighed, giving in to the inevitable. “Why does it always hit the fan on a Friday afternoon?”
“It’s an immutable law of nature,” Butler replied.
The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Mike Wilding, United States Army, was the last to enter the White House Situation Room. Wilding nodded at the three people sitting at the table—Mazie, Vice President Sam Kennett, and the director of Central Intelligence, or DCI. The four of them were the heart of the National Security Council and among the president’s most trusted advisers. As expected, Wilding’s boss, the secretary of defense, was not there, as he was reluctant to attend any meeting that included the vice president. Wilding stared at the outsider who was sitting against the back wall. “Bernie Butler,” he muttered. “I should have guessed.”
The door opened, and Patrick Shaw came into the room. “Mizz Hazelton, gentlemen, the President.” Madeline Turner entered the room and sat down.
“Patrick,” Mazie said, “I’m afraid this one is above your pay grade.” Shaw was dumbfounded. It was the first time Mazie had ever asked Shaw to leave a meeting. Normally Shaw would have treated it as a power play and responded accordingly. But Mazie never played silly Washington games. He nodded and closed the door as he left.
“This must be serious,” Turner said.
“I believe it is,” Mazie replied. She looked at Butler, her eyes full of concern.
Butler stood and keyed his remote control. The large computer monitor mounted in the wall opposite the president came to life, and a map of the Middle East flashed on the screen. “My sources claim that the radical Islamic states”—the map flashed, and Iraq, Iran, and Syria were highlighted in red—“have joined in a secret alliance. They’re calling themselves the United Islamic Front—the UIF for short.”
The DCI raised his hand slightly to interrupt, a condescending look on his face. “Syria has been on board in the war against terrorism, Iran is cooperating under the table, and we’ve effectively isolated Iraq. So, why in the name of Allah would they form such an alliance at this time?”
“Oil,” Butler said. “They are going to attack Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, and the United Arab Emirates.” Again the map changed, and the target states changed to blue.
The DCI shook his head. “Not hardly,” he announced.
Vice President Kennett scratched his empty left coat sleeve. His missing arm always itched when he was worried. “How good is your source?” he asked.
“Extremely reliable,” Butler answered.
“Confirmation?” General Wilding asked.
“We have two other independent sources saying the same thing,” Butler told him.
“And why haven’t I heard about this?” the DCI barked, his anger showing.
“We forwarded it to Langley yesterday,” Butler explained, his voice a monotone. “When it didn’t show up in the PDB this morning, I took it to Mrs. Hazelton.” The PDB was the President’s Daily Brief, a slick summary of the best intelligence the United States had. It was compiled by a committee at the CIA and seen by only twelve people.
The DCI was outraged. “You’re not on distribution! How did you see it?”
Mazie caught the crinkle in Butler’s lips, the closest he
could come to a smile. “Don’t ask the question,” she said, “if you can’t stand the answer.”
“It’s my business to know,” Butler replied. In five simple words he had summed up what intelligence was all about.
The hard professional in Wilding came out. “When? Do you have an order of battle?”
“Not order of battle, sir,” Butler answered. “We’re working on it.” He paused. “But my sense of the matter tells me before the first of the year.”
“What’s the NRO and NSA saying?” This from Vice President Kennett. Like the others, he was at home dealing with the alphabet soup that made up the intelligence community. The NRO was the National Reconnaissance Office, which controlled the Keyhole series of spy satellites, and NSA was the National Security Agency, which monitored communications.
“I’ll have to check,” the DCI said. He hit a button on the small control panel in front of him and spoke into the microphone. “We need the latest satellite imagery for the Persian Gulf and the latest CIS for the same area.” A CIS was a communications intelligence summary produced by the NSA. The DCI looked at Turner. “We should have something in a few minutes.”
“I hate surprises,” Turner told the DCI.
A woman’s voice from the control room said, “NRO coming on the number-two screen now. And a courier has a message for General Butler.”
Butler walked to the door as the second screen came to life. He stepped outside. His second in command was waiting in the hall and handed him a sealed envelope. “The shit is hittin’ the fan over there,” he told Butler.
Butler carried the envelope back into the Situation Room and glanced at the monitor displaying the latest satellite coverage from the Persian Gulf. The DCI was talking. “We’re seeing nothing unusual.” The screen scrolled, and the NSA summary appeared. Listening posts had detected no change in the normal traffic for the region. Butler glanced at the screen and shook his head as he opened the envelope. He read the message twice and cleared his throat. Everyone
turned toward him. “Iraq, Syria, and Iran are planning a joint training exercise. No announced time frame.”
General Wilding snorted. “Joint exercise, my—” He caught himself, remembering whom he was talking to.
Turner came to her feet. “The word you’re looking for, General, is ‘ass.’ Which is what they’re making of us and which I’m ending right now. No more surprises. We will stay ahead of this.”
“Level of response?” Mazie asked.
“I want everyone awake and looking at this, but I don’t see any reason for moving up the DEFCON in the Middle East—not yet.” They all agreed with her, fully aware of the political ramifications of such an action during an election year. “Mazie, start talking to your counterparts in NATO.” She pointed a finger at the DCI. “And find out why the CIA missed this. It won’t happen again. Okay, that’s it for now. We’ll reconvene tomorrow morning and see where we are.”
The White House
Saturday, July 31
Butler leaned against the wall in the corridor outside the Situation Room in the White House basement and yawned. It was early Saturday morning, and he needed a cup of coffee to jump-start his heart. Patrick Shaw emerged from the kitchen across the hall with two cups of steaming coffee and handed one to Butler. “I hear you’re a patient man,” Shaw said.
Butler took a sip before answering.
What does he want?
He allowed a cautious “It goes with the territory.”
“What do you think they’re talking about in there?” Shaw asked.
He doesn’t know?
Butler thought.
Fat chance. Shaw knows everything that goes on around here.
Before he could answer, the door to the control room opened, and one of the duty controllers told Butler he was wanted inside. Butler gave Shaw a shrug as if to say he was sorry as the Marine guard opened the door to the Situation Room. One glance around the room as he entered told Butler all he needed to know. Every major policy player in the Turner administration was there, including the irascible secretary of state, Stephan Serick, and Robert Merritt, the secretary of defense.
“Well, Bernie,” the president said, “you certainly stirred up a hornet’s nest on this one.”
“I take it you have verification,” Butler said.
Serick coughed for attention. “My people tell me it’s all a false alarm. There is no secret alliance between Iraq, Iran, and Syria. There is no joint exercise. We’ve all lost too much sleep over this.”
“I’m not ready to totally discount it,” the DCI said, surprising Butler. The DCI had just admitted to a major intelligence failure.
Serick turned on him. “So what do you know now that you didn’t know twelve hours ago?” His voice filled with sarcasm. “No doubt you’ve unearthed the real expert on the Middle East—the little old lady who wears purple dresses and sleeps under her desk in the CIA’s basement?”
Secretary of Defense Merritt chuckled at the DCI’s embarrassment. “Not exactly,” the DCI replied, glaring at Merritt. “What I did discover was a power struggle going on between my China and Middle Eastern division chiefs.” He spoke without emotion. “Both those gentlemen were fired, and their replacements are taking a fresh look at the situation. So far the assessment isn’t good.” Madeline Turner’s warning about its not happening again had not gone unheeded.
Serick snorted. “Are you saying the Boys in the Basement made you look like fools?”
The DCI took a deep breath to control his anger. “What I’m saying is that we have a new development in the Middle East that needs close monitoring.”
Serick was shouting. “My people would know if—”
The DCI interrupted him. “Your people don’t know diddly—”
“Gentlemen,” the president said, her voice full of authority. “Enough.” A heavy silence ruled the room. Then, “Bernie, what is your sense of the situation?”
Butler thought for a moment. “The Islamic radicals have sensed a weakness and are moving in a new direction. It has the potential for serious trouble.”
“Don’t you think,” Serick said, “that our allies in the Gulf
would be shouting for help if what you say is true? Besides, who exactly are these sources that are revealing all of this? Some janitor in an embassy? Pickpocket? Pimp? A whore?”
Butler almost laughed, but it wasn’t in his nature. Serick would never know how close he came to the truth. “Some things in my business,” Butler murmured, “never change.” He let that sink in. “Unfortunately, our erstwhile allies in the Gulf tend to rely on us for their intelligence. They know what we tell them.”
“If I may,” the DCI said, trying to speak with authority in his domain, “let me summarize. One: Iran, Iraq, and Syria have joined together in an alliance, calling themselves the United Islamic Front, or UIF. Two: We have an unconfirmed report from General Butler that the UIF intends to attack and capture the Kuwaiti and Saudi oil fields.”
Merritt finally spoke. “Which will never happen.”
“So you keep reassuring us,” Vice President Kennett said. There was no reply as Merritt slipped into one of his characteristic funks. He hated the vice president.
The DCI took the silence as consent to continue. “Three: The UIF has announced a joint training exercise to be held sometime in the future. We’ve seen this before. They flex their muscles, we cry wolf and react, they do nothing, and we end up with egg on our face. For now it’s fair to ask how much coincidence or speculation are we dealing with?”
The president sank back into her chair. “Patrick is fond of saying that ‘once is chance, twice is coincidence, three times is enemy action.’” She leaned forward, her face frozen. “Every instinct tells me this is enemy action.” Again a silence came down in the small room.
“Madam President,” the DCI finally said, “we must not overreact. No one starts a war with the United States in an election year. Even the Arabs know that.”
“Assuming they’re rational actors,” Butler said quietly. The number of heads nodding around the room was ample indication that he was not alone in his doubt.
The president thought for a moment. “No more surprises. So what can we expect, and what options are available to us?
I want to stay ahead of this, and
they
do not drive events in my country. Further, I will not be held hostage in the White House monitoring the Middle East. Mazie, I want you and Sam”—she nodded at her vice president—“along with the secretary of defense and the DCI to form a working group to spearhead our response. Call it the Executive Committee. ExCom for short. Mazie, you have direct access to me, anytime, anyplace. Anyone you need, you have. All doors are opened to the ExCom.” She looked around the room. “I hope everyone understands what I’m saying.” She rose to leave. “Stephan, please join me.” Everyone stood as the president left the room with the secretary of state in tow.
Butler allowed an inward smile. By taking the cranky Serick with her, the president had removed a major obstacle to progress.
“Well,” Mazie said, “I think the president was quite clear in what she wants. Sam, who do we need working with us?”
The vice president didn’t hesitate. “Bernie Butler.”
Mazie glanced at the DCI. “Anyone else?” He shook his head.
She turned to the secretary of defense. “I’d prefer General Wilding to stand in for me,” Merritt answered, refusing to work with the vice president.
Maddy walked into her private study next to the Oval Office and nodded at her assistant, Nancy Bender, to close the door. She motioned Serick to a comfortable seat. “Well, Stephan, what’s your take on all this?”
All the posturing, the grumpiness, the irritability that made him a legend, was gone. No longer was he the devil’s advocate keeping everyone honest. Now he was a trusted adviser giving his president the best advice he could. “There still exists a deep hatred of our country in the Arab world, and Butler certainly understands the Middle Eastern mind-set. We may have convinced them to forgo terrorism as a national policy, but if they sense a weakness they may well be
striking out in a new direction. Timely action now might convince them otherwise.”
“We’re going to need allies.”
“I’ll do what I can, but France is going to be a major problem.”
“Why am I not surprised. Talk to them. The Russians?”
“I can neutralize them.”
“And the Chinese?”
Serick shook his head. “Still to be heard from.”
Taman Negara
Sunday, August 1
The soldiers trudging down the path in a line were nervous as they looked right and left, afraid of what might be lurking in the jungle around them. Less than five meters away, Kamigami and Tel lay under a low bush counting them as they filed past. But there was more. Kamigami was taking their measure as soldiers, judging the way they moved and carried their weapons after being in hot pursuit for three days. He was not impressed. The signs of exhaustion were evident, the result of poor conditioning. But even more telling was the way they bunched in a tight group and clung to one another like ducks in a row. It had been easy leading them in a series of circles, always coming back to the path that led to the east. He seriously doubted they even knew where they were. It would be simple to render them. When the last man had passed, Tel started to speak. Kamigami waved him to silence. On cue, four stragglers stumbled past. Kamigami held up his hand and waited. A lone man came into view, driven by the fear of being left behind. He struggled to keep from collapsing as he disappeared down the path.
“I count twenty-seven,” Kamigami said.
“My feet hurt,” Tel said in a low voice.
“It’s only pain,” Kamigami told him.
Tel pulled off his boots and rubbed his aching feet. In all his nineteen years he had never been so bruised and abused.
Yet for some strange reason he felt good. “Will they come back this way?” he asked.
“Eventually,” Kamigami replied. “When they realize they’re out of the park, they won’t go much farther. Might run into civilization. They’ll rest, maybe ten, twelve, hours before returning to base.” He pulled out his chart and GPS. “Go back to where I left the bicycle.” He pointed to the spot on the chart where he had dumped the bicycle laden with supplies. “There’s claymores in one of the bags. Bring back as many as you can carry. Meet me here.” Again he pointed to the chart. “Memorize the coordinates and never mark them on a map.”
“What’s a claymore?” Tel asked.
Kamigami stifled a sigh.
Don’t kids know anything these days?
he lamented to himself. He described what the olive drab, three-and-a-half-pound antipersonnel mine looked like and how it was carried in a canvas bandolier. Tel listened attentively as he pulled on his boots. “Off you go,” Kamigami said. “Heads up. Hurry.” He watched approvingly as Tel moved out, staying low and in the shadows. “The boy is a quick learner,” Kamigami mumbled to himself. He leaned against a tree to rest. He calculated he could make the journey in three hours, so Tel should do it in four or five—if he didn’t get lost. Then he fell asleep.
The inner alarm was there, cutting through the fog of sleep. Kamigami came alert, pleased that the sixth sense that had saved him so many times in combat was still there, undiminished by time. There was movement in the brush off to his right. He cracked an eyelid as he freed the Beretta in his holster. It was Tel. He faked sleep to see what the boy would do. Tel emerged from the brush weighed down with bandoliers, paused, and gazed at Kamigami. Certain that the big man was asleep, Tel retreated back into the bush and made a loud noise.
“Bull elephants in mating season make less racket,” Kamigami said half aloud.
“I didn’t want you to shoot me by mistake,” Tel replied.
Kamigami knew that Tel was only being polite and didn’t want to embarrass him by catching him asleep. “I saw you the first time.”
Tel grinned, not believing him. “Yes, sir.”
“Cheeky bugger,” Kamigami grumbled as Tel shed his cargo. “How many did you bring?”
“All of them. Twelve.”
“Six is the normal load,” Kamigami explained. He checked his watch. Tel had made it back in less than three hours. “Well done,” he conceded.
“What now,” Tel asked, eager to get on with it.
“Impatient bugger,” Kamigami groused. He set to work and showed Tel how to rig one of the small mines. He unfolded the short scissor legs and sat the mine on the ground. He read the words on the face of the claymore: “‘Front Toward Enemy.’ Pretty simple.” He attached the firing wire and rigged the firing device.
“Why are the words printed in English?” Tel asked.
“Because these particular puppies were made in the good old US of A and probably sold to some government in the name of military aid.”
“Then they were resold into the black market.”
“Something like that,” Kamigami allowed. “Okay, ambush time.” Tel watched as Kamigami found a relatively open area and set three mines twenty-five meters apart. Then he strung the firing wires to a concealed position fifteen meters back from the trail and connected the claymores to a common firing device. “Normally this is all I would set along a trail like this. But since you were such an industrious little pack mule, we’re going for overkill.” He moved up the trail and planted another set of three. After rigging and camouflaging the mines, he moved farther along the trail and set up another three. Kamigami showed Tel how to activate the firing device and gave him his orders.
“Your job is to fire this last set of claymores when the Gomers are in range.”
“Gomers?” Tel asked. “My uncle said that was a bad name Anglos used for us.” Kamigami stared at him, not un
derstanding. “I mean…ah…Gomers are Asian. Aren’t we Gomers, too?”
Kamigami laughed. “Naw. Gomers are the bad guys. Never identify with the enemy you’re about to render. Give ’em all a name, something derogatory.” He turned very serious. “Never forget what those bastards did to your family.” He studied Tel for a moment, wishing he could read the look on his face. “Here’s the drill: I detonate the middle set of claymores when the main body of Gomers is in range. It won’t get ’em all, and I expect a few to head your way. Your part of the contract is to nail them. But only detonate your claymores if you’ve heard mine go off first. Otherwise you’ll be taking them all on. After firing your claymores, fall back into the jungle and rendezvous at the bicycle. If I let the Gomers go past, wait for me here. If something goes wrong and you don’t know what to do, hide for twelve hours, then rendezvous at the bicycle.”
“What will you do?”
“Good question,” Kamigami said. “If the conditions are right, I’ll initiate the ambush. Then I’ll fall back on the first set of mines and render any Gomers coming my way. I’ll clean up and meet you at the rendezvous.”
“Why can’t I clean up?”
“No weapon,” Kamigami replied. “Just do what I tell you this time. You’ll have plenty of chances later. Let’s do it.” Tel followed him as they walked the trail, checking the camouflaged mines.
“Why did you pick such an open area for the ambush?”