Hunt the Scorpion (14 page)

Remington crossed his long legs. He was clearly uncomfortable.

The ambassador rubbed his chin. “I see.”

“See what, sir?”

“I’m sure there’s an explanation.”

Crocker said, “The obvious one is that they’ve been kidnapped.”

Remington jumped in. “Let’s not rush to conclusions. Transportation and communication in this country are both problematic. It’s something we deal with on a daily basis.”

“This is clearly more than a transportation problem.”

“Jumping to conclusions doesn’t help.”

He wanted to shout “Fuck you!” But before he could, the ambassador spoke.

He said, “Crocker, I can assure you that we’ll do everything in our power. Everything. We’re currently deploying all our in-country assets, which are considerable. We’ve got on-the-ground assets; we’ve got drones we can deploy in the air. We’ll find your wife. I promise.”

“Yes, we will,” Remington echoed.

“You can count on us, dammit. I’ll stake my career on that.”

It’s exactly what Crocker wanted to hear. Gazing down at the coat of arms in the rug, he said, “I appreciate that, sir.”

“What good are we, if we can’t look after our own?”

“I agree, sir.”

“Try and get some sleep. You must be exhausted.”

True, he hadn’t slept. But it seemed like a ridiculous idea. Crocker muttered, “I’ll try, sir,” and rose to his feet. His head hung like a huge weight on his shoulders. He wanted to do something to help recover his wife but didn’t know what.

The ambassador said, “I have one request before you leave.”

“What’s that, sir?”

“Under no circumstances are you to talk to the press.”

The press. The press? Why would I talk to the press?
He didn’t trust what they reported and did everything he could to avoid them. Besides, the presence of SEAL Team Six operators in Libya was supposed to be top secret.

Doesn’t Saltzman know that?

Someone drove him to the guesthouse in a black sedan. An Amy Winehouse song was playing on the stereo. He opened his eyes as the tire wheels crunched on the gravel drive. Birds were singing. Two green parrots with red beaks chased each other past the windshield and into a nearby tree.

He thought he might be dreaming, but then saw the grim, determined faces of Ritchie, Mancini, Akil, and Davis emerging from the house to greet him. They’d heard the news and crowded around him, expressing their sympathy.

Akil: “We’ll get her back.”

Mancini: “Holly’s a tough lady. She’ll be fine.”

Davis: “Just tell us what to do, boss. I’m in.”

Akil: “We all are.”

Ritchie: “Whatever it takes.”

He knew that if he could count on anyone at a time like this, it was his men. “Thanks, guys. Where’s Cal?”

“He went home. Remember?”

Feeling a hundred years old, he sat at the kitchen table and drank a cup of bitter coffee. Mancini stood before him with his hand over the receiver of a satellite phone. “It’s the CO. You want to talk to him?”

“Who?”

“Our CO back at headquarters in Virginia. I’ll tell him you’ll call back.”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Hand me the phone.”

He recognized Alan Sutter’s smooth voice, the distinctive Kentucky accent. Remembered that he had bought land in his native state and planned to retire there and raise horses. Racehorses.

Their CO was saying all the right things—about loyalty, sticking together, praying for Holly, doing anything that could possibly be done.

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate that.”

“We’re family, Crocker. Holly’s one of us.”

“I know.” Emotion built in his chest.

His CO paused. He was a no-nonsense guy. Sentimentality didn’t figure into his decisions.

He said, “Crocker, this is a difficult situation for all of us. I pray that the whole thing’s a misunderstanding and Holly shows up untouched.”

“Me, too, sir.”

“But here’s the hard reality. No point pussyfooting around.”

He sensed what was coming and steeled himself.

“You and your men are there to complete an important mission.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Mancini told me that you’re under way but still have a few more sites to inspect.”

“One or two more, sir. That’s correct.”

“Under the circumstances, I should recall you, relieve you of your duties there.”

“Sir—”

His CO raised his voice. “Let me finish!”

“Sorry, sir.”

“But I can’t.”

“Can’t what, sir?”

“Order you back. I know you want to be there close to your wife. I would, too. So I leave that decision up to you.”

Crocker started to get choked up. “Thank you, sir. That means a lot to me.”

Sutter said, “Here’s the situation. I want you to turn over the inspections to Warrant Officer Mancini. I know that you also lost Calvin, so I’m sending two other men.”

“Sir, that won’t be necessary.”

“I think it is.”

“I disagree, sir.”

“Why?”

“First, I have sufficient men with me to complete the inspections. Secondly, I’m perfectly capable of continuing to lead them myself.”

The CO paused, then said, “That doesn’t sound realistic.”

“Trust me, it is, sir.”

“Seriously, Crocker. You mean to tell me you think you can ignore the situation with your wife and continue?”

“A mission is a mission, sir.”

“Dammit, Crocker. Don’t do anything stupid. Don’t get in the way.”

“I won’t, sir. The ambassador has assured me that he has people out there looking for Holly. Frankly, I don’t know the country well enough to know where to start.”

Sutter: “I should probably have my head examined.”

“You make perfect sense to me, sir.”

“If I hear about any interference from you, you’re out of there.”

“I understand.”

“Alright, Crocker. My prayers are with you and your wife. Godspeed.”

T
he two
Ambiens Davis gave him knocked him out. In the morning he couldn’t remember anything except the Lord’s Prayer, which he repeated over and over in his head.

Crocker had never been much of a believer in prayer or organized religion, but this morning he got down on his knees beside the bed and said out loud: “God, please look after Holly and deliver her from whatever evil might await her. Don’t let anyone harm her. She’s a good woman, filled with love and light, and worthy of your mercy and compassion. Amen.”

He was still repeating the Lord’s Prayer to himself like a mantra when they arrived at the airport. As he stood with his cell phone waiting for Remington to come on the line, Akil, wearing a tight black T-shirt, said, “Doug Volman stopped by last night.”

“Who?”

“Volman. You know, that goofy guy from the State Department.”

“What did he want?”

“He said he wanted to talk to you.”

“What about?”

“Wouldn’t say.”

Remington picked up, sounding hoarse and tired, as though he’d been speaking all night. “What’s up?”

Crocker said, “I want to let you know that we’re assembled at the airport, about to leave for the military base in Sebha.”

Remington provided background, explaining that Sebha was nearly five hundred miles almost directly south of Tripoli, a transportation hub in the middle of the Sahara that Gaddafi had transformed into an agricultural oasis thanks to the Great Man Made River, a network of 1,750 miles of pipes that transported fresh water from wells to cities throughout Libya. It was the largest irrigation project on earth, described by Gaddafi as the eighth wonder of the world.

“Interesting. In all the confusion about my wife, I forgot to tell you about our trip to Toummo, particularly our discovery that Iranians are stirring up trouble along the border with Niger.”

“We knew that already.”

“What about the fact that Farhed Alizadeh is down there directing things?”

“It’s got our attention.”

“What do you think Alizadeh’s presence there means?”

“It means that the Iranians want uranium, which we already knew.”

“I’m not an expert,” Crocker said, “but it seems significant.”

“Are Lasher and Dr. Jabril there yet?” Remington asked, changing the subject.

Crocker saw a black sedan crossing the tarmac. “I think they’ve just arrived.”

“Good. Oh, and, regarding Holly, we’re following up on a lead now. I’ve had my men out working since we met with the ambassador. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear something.”

“Thank you. I appreciate all that you’re doing and wish you good luck.”

He wanted to trust Remington, the ambassador, and the people who worked for them. Wanted to believe that they had a network of dependable sources throughout the country that would find Holly and Brian Shaw and quickly bring them back unharmed. But he had doubts, most of which related to the Sheraton bombing. He chased them away by running through Colonel Boyd’s OODA loop in his head, which he had committed to memory as a young SEAL and repeated to himself every time he launched a mission.

Their gear sat waiting on the same RCAF CC-130 Hercules they had flown to Toummo—weapons, Geiger counters, hazmat suits, shovels, saws, breaching material, acetylene torches, new locks.

Jabril strapped himself into the seat next to him and said, “My friends and I are worried about the future of our country.”

“I would be, too, if I were a Libyan.”

They were only a few minutes aloft and were already passing over endless tracts of desert.

Jabril, who was in a talkative mood, started sharing his impressions of Gaddafi. How he used to sit around a fire in the backyard of his compound and talk all night—about his dreams for Libya, his theories of human evolution, and the relations between men and women.

He spent most of his time outdoors, despite the fact that he’d built a palace decorated with a white baby grand piano, indoor pools, a golden mermaid sofa, and closets stocked with his eccentric wardrobe, ranging from uniforms covered in gold braid to African tribal gowns.

He considered swine flu a biological weapon, and had even designed and built his own car, called the Rocket, which he called the world’s safest automobile. Why had he built it? To better protect his people, many of whom were killed and injured on Libyan roads every year.

Crocker nodded and listened politely. If nothing else, Jabril was helping him keep his mind off his own problems.

“Have you ever heard the name Sheik Zubair?” the scientist asked.

“I don’t believe so.”

“Gaddafi believed that William Shakespeare was really a poet from Basra, Iraq. He claimed to have studied Shakespeare and discovered a strong resemblance in his work to the teaching of the Zenith sect of Islam.”

“That sounds pretty out there.”

“I agree. But aren’t all men shades of gray? Even Gaddafi did some positive things.”

“For example?”

“He gave everyone in Libya free electricity, free health care, and free education. All loans were interest free. Gasoline cost fourteen cents a gallon. The country was debt free.”

“Then why was he overthrown?”

“My friends claim it was more like a coup d’etat from abroad,” Jabril answered.

“A coup?”

The elfin-faced scientist nodded. “My friends are sophisticated men. Businessmen, professors. They opposed Gaddafi, but claim that anti-Gaddafi sentiment was never very strong.”

Crocker wasn’t particularly interested in Libyan politics and had no way of judging if what Jabril was saying was true. Still, he nodded and listened politely.

“A coup d’etat from abroad to get two things, oil and gold,” Jabril continued.

Oil sounded reasonable, but…“Gold?”

“Gold, yes.” Jabril grinned and leaned closer. “Gaddafi owned one hundred and fifty tons of gold that he kept in banks in Tripoli. He was also talking about introducing an African currency called the gold dinar, which would have rivaled the dollar and euro, and shifted the economic balance.”

“Shifted it which way?”

“Oil would no longer have been traded exclusively in dollars.”

“And your friends believe that’s why Gaddafi was overthrown?”

The Libyan raised a crooked index finger. “Consider this. In the year 2000, Saddam Hussein announced that Iraqi oil would be traded in euros instead of dollars. Sanctions and war followed, and he was ousted. The same thing happened to Gaddafi.”

Crocker wasn’t a big believer in conspiracy theories. He’d heard them all—the Illuminati were secretly running the world, or the Rothschild banks, the oil cartels, the drug cartels, Opus Dei.

After two more hours of listening to the doctor reminisce about his childhood in Libya and his wife and children, they touched down in Sebha. As he exited the aircraft and felt the midday heat bearing down on him, Crocker noticed several MiG-25s parked beside the runway. “They used to be a mainstay of Gaddafi’s air force,” said Lasher. “Now they belong to the NTC. Trouble is, they don’t have anyone to fly them, because all the pilots left the country.”

They piled into a van for the short ride to the military base, past a domed mosque and a large hill of sand with a castle on top that Jabril said had been built by the Italians in the 1930s, when Libya was still a colony.

Sebha appeared to be a sleepy, windswept town. The streets were paved and modern, most of the buildings white one- or two-story dwellings.

Akil pointed out the green pro-Gaddafi flags flying from a number of houses and vehicles. “What’s that about?”

“Curious,” Lasher answered. “I noticed them, too.”

The base looked abandoned, except for two elderly men in olive-green uniforms who guarded the gate. It was surrounded by a ten-foot-high chain-link fence topped with barbed wire and consisted of several barracks, a shed with two disabled tanks inside, a shooting range, and a water tower that looked like it hadn’t been used in years.

Several skinny, mangy dogs slept in the shade created by a broken-down transport truck. “Soviet make,” Mancini reported. “A KrAZ, I believe they called it. Remember, boss, Afghanistan in 2000?”

“Didn’t we drive one of these through the Panjshir Valley?”

“Correct.”

It had been a CIA-led mission to assassinate Bin Laden that was aborted by President Clinton. They were stationed in the Panjshir, working with the Afghan Northern Alliance, particularly its leader, the charismatic Ahmad Shah Massoud. He and his small force of Tajik tribesmen had held off the Soviets for ten years. Back in late 2000 they were resisting the Taliban and al-Qaeda and seeking American help, but Washington was more interested in the come stains on Monica Lewinsky’s dress.

Massoud was assassinated by al-Qaeda on September 9, 2001—two days before the World Trade Center attack. The memory still produced a pain at the pit of Crocker’s stomach. Sometimes political leaders and policymakers in Washington didn’t understand, because they were too far removed from the realities on the ground.

The van bounced up and down as Jabril directed the driver down a road mostly obscured with sand. It wound around a several-hundred-foot-high mountain of dirt and loose rock to a second fence and a gate posted with warning signs in Arabic.

After Ritchie cut through the lock with a battery-operated saw, they entered and drove past a fifty-foot mound of dirt and boulders to an opening between two even higher mounds of barren sand and rock.

This was another unlikely place to find anything, especially the modern refinery-type plant that occupied the three-hundred-by-hundred-yard space. White metal, glass, and aluminum all sparkled in the sun like a mirage.

“Where’d this come from?” Ritchie mumbled as they stepped out of the parked vehicle. “Mars?”

They walked under the cloudless pale blue sky as Jabril pointed out the plant’s features—the long production shed that had once housed his office, the storage and distillation tanks, drying facilities, and cylinder filling station. Unlike the plant at Toummo, this one hadn’t been inspected in recent years.

“This is where we manufactured mustard gas and sarin in the nineties,” the Libyan scientist said.

“How much?” Crocker asked.

“Roughly two hundred tons until I defected in 2003.”

“Two hundred tons? That’s a hell of a lot.”

Jabril explained that the plant had been built in the nineties with the help of a German company and Japanese engineers.

“Where are the chemical weapons now?” Crocker asked.

Jabril said, “You’re about to find out.” He stopped to adjust his sunglasses and mop the sweat off his brow. Then he continued toward the opposite two-hundred-foot mountain of dirt and rock. The sun was impossibly hot.

Following twenty feet behind with Lasher and Akil, Crocker didn’t notice the indentation in the mountain until Jabril disappeared.

“Where’d you go?” he called.

“I’m over here,” the doctor shouted, his voice echoing through the mounds of sand.

When they joined him, he pointed to a pile of boulders positioned against the side of the mountain. “There’s an entrance somewhere behind there,” he said.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Unless the whole chamber was destroyed.”

It took almost an hour for Crocker, Davis, Akil, Ritchie, and Mancini to clear away the rocks. Behind them stood a metal door tall and wide enough to accommodate a truck and painted to blend in with the terrain.

“Clever, yes?” Jabril asked.

“Very clever,” Crocker answered. The hard work had made him sweat through his clothes.

“This must have cost a shitload to build,” Akil said.

“Hundreds of millions,”  Lasher offered.

“What for?”

“To produce chemical weapons.”

“I know that already,” Akil answered. “My question is, What did Gaddafi want them for?”

“Back in the nineties, he had a vision of creating a united Africa. He called it the African Union and saw himself as its godfather. Planned to lead a united continent that would rival the United States or the Soviet Union in military and economic strength.”

“The man had ambition.”

“So did Hitler,” Mancini added.

The door had an internal lock that Mancini managed to pick—which was convenient, because the next option would have been to use explosives, and they didn’t know what was housed inside.

It took three men to push the door open. The awful screeching sound reverberated up Crocker’s spine. Hundreds of little black birds took flight and circled overhead.

Crocker, Lasher, Jabril, and Mancini were selected to wear the hazmat suits.

Unlike the Class C suits they had worn at Busetta that used gas masks to filter the outside air, these suits were Class A, which meant that they were vaporproof right down to their special seam-sealing zippers, two-ply chemical-resistant nitrile gloves, and supplied-air respirator with escape cylinder. Each man breathed from an oxygen tank strapped inside his suit.