Primary Target (1999) (5 page)

Prost shook his head in mild disbelief. "Three weeks later one of the NRO's advanced KH-1 1s spotted the Vasily Proshkinov as it lay at anchor in the Strait of Hormuz near Bandar-e Abbas. The 5th Fleet dispatched a destroyer and a frigate that were conducting interdiction ops near the Shatt al-Arab waterway. By the time the ships arrived on the scene, the nukes were gone."

"Do you have any idea where they are?"

"Oh, yes." He chuckled very weakly. "They're sitting atop missiles on the launchpads at Bandar-e Abbas and Bushehr." "Out in the open--not even camouflaged?"

"That's right. Our spacecraft data, and the photos from the recon flights show most of the details. The Tomcat that went down was photographing the launch pads with the sun directly overhead."

Tilting his head down, Prost seemed to search for the words he wanted to say. "Their nukes can easily reach all of their regional enemies, including our military units in Turkey, Bahrain, Qatar, Kuwait, and Saudi Arabia." Prost caught Scott's eye. "And, they're daring us to do something about it."

"Well, I'm not surprised," Scott said as he struggled to contain the remark he really wanted to make. "When we didn't take a tougher stance against Iran for helping Saddam circumnavigate the oil embargo, what did we expect? Same with Saddam's cheat-and-retreat strategy."

"I agree." Prost nodded. "It made us look like fools." "And," Scott added, "our lack of determination encouraged the boys in Baghdad and Tehran to be more aggressive toward us. Hell, Saddam is still playing rope-a-dope with us while he continues to strengthen his nuclear capability." "I'm with you," Prost said hastily. "While everyone was focused on Saddam, Iran has been busy stockpiling advanced weapons, including nukes. Look, we all know that the Arab leaders never wanted Iraq too weak because their real nightmare is Iran, not Baghdad."

Scott paused a moment. "We can be sure of one thing," Dalton said as he glanced at Jackie. "Our nuclear deterrence isn't going to stop a bunch of fanatics set on martyrdom." "No question about that," Prost said in a low voice. "We can't prevent people from committing suicide."

Scott's glance locked with Prost. "If the Iranians launch their nukes at our forces, the entire Gulf region would be uninhabitable for hundreds of years. If they lob a few nukes on Tel Aviv at the same time, the Israelis will turn downtown Tehran into one gigantic smoking hole."

"Gigantic radioactive hole," Prost added. Tilting his head back, he studied the blue Alaskan skies and turned to Scott. "That's the dilemma the president is struggling with. This is very different from the Cold War era. The Soviet premiers and their military leaders had wicked intentions, but they were at least rational, and somewhat predictable. They didn't really want to have a nuclear exchange with us and risk losing the fragile control they had over their people."

Prost continued with a sense of dread. "Iran is an entirely different anomaly. It is, without a doubt, the greatest nondeterrable threat we face, and Tehran now has the capability to deliver chemical, biological, and nuclear weapons. One miscalculation and the Middle East could erupt into a wa
r
that might set off North Korea--and other rogue nations--and force us to use our nukes."

"Take away their options," Scott suggested.

"That's what the president is considering," Prost said emphatically. "Have you heard the latest threats from Bassam Shakhar?"

"I haven't heard a thing for the past three days."

Before leaving on his fishing vacation, Scott had seen extensive news coverage of the wealthy militant shouting threats at the United States, desecrating the American flag, and burning the U
. S
. president in effigy.

"The last I knew, Shakhar was threatening to assassinate the president if we didn't pack our trash and get out of the Middle East."

Prost slowly exhaled. "That hasn't changed," he said with a grimace, "but Shakhar added a new twist yesterday morning--a globally televised reminder of our deadline."

Scott let it run through his mind, then shook his head. "Shakhar is backing himself into a corner."

"He doesn't think so." Prost raised his arm and studied his wristwatch. "According to Shakhar, we now have less than four hours to begin removing our military forces from the Arabian peninsula, or his premier terrorists cells will assassinate the president of the United States and begin downing U
. S
. airliners. In fact, Shakhar brazenly stated that his primary target is President Macklin."

"He actually said that?" Scott asked with an anxious expression of disbelief.

"Live on CNN and MSNBC," Prost groused. "If the U
. S
. attempts to retaliate in any way, Shakhar said the Iranian Navy will close the Strait of Hormuz and starve the West of oil. He also said Iran has prepositioned a wide variety of biological and chemical agents in all major U
. S
. cities." The first warning light flashed in Scott's mind. "The guy is crazy--he's a madman who needs to be institutionalized." "Crazy or not, he is a major player in this whole scenario, and he has a sizable fortune at his disposal."

"Is the president going to back down?"

"No
. W
ay." Prost's voice was quieter, flatter. "He thinks they're bluffing, and he intends to call their bluff."

"What do you think?" Scott asked.

"Bassam Shakhar is not a man who makes idle threats." Prost tossed a pebble in the river. "If they've prepositioned nerve agents, botulism, or anthrax in our largest cities, it would be easy to pollute our air and municipal water supplies. However, we don't have any evidence to substantiate his claim--at least not yet."

Prost picked up another pebble. "On the other hand, Shakbar knows our commercial aviation security system--for the most part--is inadequate and disorganized. It's nearly impossible to develop and maintain security areas around congested urban airports. He also knows airports and airliners are vulnerable to sabotage, and shoulder-fired antiaircraft weapons."

"And," Jackie said with feigned nonchalance, "the terrorists understand the primal fear that airline crashes strike in the hearts of millions of people who--by necessity--have to fly commercially."

"Absolute fear is their primary goal," Prost agreed in a sad voice. "If Shakhar can drop a dozen U
. S
. airliners, and orchestrate the assassination of the president, the members of the Supreme Council. believe Americans will fall to their knees in fear and confusion."

Jackie looked straight into Scott's eyes. "We may think it sounds wacky, but they truly believe it."

"I have no doubt. An assassination, combined with the airlines going bankrupt, would certainly put us in a bind." "If Shakhar isn't bluffing," Prost went on, "we're a little late on the draw. We're going to have to take some major risks, and we're going to have to do it quickly." He glanced at a moose ambling toward the river. "That's why I'm here." As he saw the deep concern written on Prost's face, Scott's entire body suddenly tensed. His glance sliced to Jackie, then back to Prost. "Okay. What's the plan?"

"We've penetrated a few of the terrorist groups," Prost confided triumphantly. "During the past sixteen months, our undercover agents--including a number of Islamic recruits--have infiltrated the Hezbollah of Hejaz, al-Gamaat, alIslamiyah, Hamas, and the Organization of Islamic Revolution at the Imam Ali Camp in east Tehran. It's like playing the lottery: you have to dump a lot of money in, but every now and then someone hits the big prize."

"And we hit the jackpot," Jackie announced with pride in her voice. "One of my colleagues--also a civilian agent--successfully infiltrated one of the main training camps for the central faction of Islamic Jihad."

Scott merely nodded.

"About eight months ago," Jackie continued, her voice filled with exuberance, "Bassam Shakhar began spending three to four hours a week at the training camp. He's surrounded by heavy security and comes and goes at random times, but he is the kingpin behind the anti-U
. S
. military operation."

Scott felt a tingle of excitement. "The agent--is he still there?"

"She," Jackie informed him in a pleasant voice. "Her name is Maritza Gunzelman. She's still at the camp, but she recently came under suspicion, and they're closely watching every move she makes."

"Why do you think they're suspicious of her?" Scott asked.

"I really don't know for certain." Jackie paused, eyeing Scott briefly. "She sent us a short message about three weeks ago. She's gleaned a lot of important information about Shakhar, his plans, and his team leaders. Unfortunately, since they've become suspicious of her, we aren't able to communicate with Maritza like we did before. She's trapped there and we're going to have to mount a covert operation to rescue her."

Although he was intrigued by what she had divulged, Scott's curiosity about Sullivan's role was quickly getting the best of him. There was a bold and adventurous spirit about her--an air of courage that was both sensuous and reckless. About five and a half feet in height, she had dark brown hair swept back in a wedge, and seductive gray-green eyes that didn't miss anything.

"No offense," Scott said, aware that Prost had a tendency to be absentminded around attractive women, "but I'm a little confused about Ms. Sullivan's role."

"I apologize," Prost hurriedly replied. "It's been a long night for us. We left straight from the White House and went to Andrews to catch a flight to Elmendorf. Jackie and Maritza are former clandestine intelligence officers with the Defens
e
Humint Service, and, like you, she and Maritza have become civilian consultants."

Suddenly the synapse hit Scott like a two-by-four. I invited her to go sailing with me. His face flushed as it all came rushing back from the previous year. Her hair had been longer and she had been wearing a stunning black cocktail dress, but it was definitely the same woman he had met at an elegant restaurant in Georgetown.

Jackie and three of her girlfriends had been enjoying a lively birthday bash at 1789. Scott and another former Marine pilot had introduced themselves to the quartet, then hosted after-dinner cordials for the group. Later, when Scott managed to get Jackie alone, he'd invited her to go sailing. She accepted the invitation, but Scott left the following day for Buenos Aires, and during his quest to capture an international terrorist, he misplaced Jackie's name and phone number.

Scott tilted his head down. 1 hope she doesn't remember who 1 am.

"Besides speaking six languages," Prost continued, "and being an excellent markswoman, Jackie's an expert in counterterrorism and international weapons proliferation."

Scott cast a quick look at her and noticed the guarded, aloof poise she maintained. He assumed a guise of nonchalance while she eyed him with close curiosity. If she remembers, she's hiding it well.

"She's a former Air Force F-16 pilot who also flies helicopters, and she teaches a course in high-speed evasive driving."

Scott gave her a casual glance, then cleared his throat. "Okay"--he paused--"where do I fit in?"

Prost's eyes hardened and a forced smile highlighted his cheeks. "President Macklin and I would like you--working in conjunction with Jackie--to extract Maritza Gunzelman from the terrorist compound." The words came out as a challenge. "We have to know what Shakhar is really up to, find out if he's bluffing."

Scott's response was stony silence for a few seconds, followed by a slow grin. "That's a mighty tall order."

"That's why the president sent me to talk to you in person," Prost confided. "This is extremely important. Our intel--CIA, the Brits, and Mossad--indicates a flurry of activity in the Shalchar camps, but Maritza is the only operative who has firsthand knowledge of his intentions."

"It's critical," Jackie asserted. "We have to find out what Maritza has learned about Shakhar's specific plans."

Scott arched an eyebrow, but remained silent while he contemplated the scope of the operation.

"President Macklin," Prost went on, "asked me to tell you that you have carte blanche to carry out the mission."

Prost placed his hands on his knees. "Scott, we have every reason to believe that Ms. Gunzelman has critical information that is vital to our national interest. We have to know what their plans are."

Scott's eyes shifted from Prost to Sullivan.

Jackie's expression was intense. "Maritza had originally planned to disappear from the Bekaa Valley during one of her weekly trips to the marketplace. Now she isn't allowed to leave the compound."

Scott slowly shook his head. "I can't perform miracles." "She's in real jeopardy." Jackie's voice took on a sense of urgency. "We can't storm the place, and there are too many obstacles in and around the camp to risk a simple helicopter extraction."

"It sounds like a suicide mission," Scott said. "The terrorists are well armed and ruthless, but that's only part of the problem. That entire valley is a center of international drug production. The druggies and their security teams are also well armed, and they shoot at anything--and I mean anything--that threatens their billion-dollar business."

Scott paused, then smiled ruefully. "Another minor problem is the thousands of Syrian troops in the valley. Target practice is their favorite pastime, night or day."