Prologue: Presidential Palace near Baghdad

Saddam Hussein perused the two pages in his hands. He sat in a high-backed chair at a priceless, antique French desk. The desk and chair were on an elevated platform with gold-laced tapestries hanging behind the Great Leader. The carpeting was a royal red; pillared golden candle stands marked the borders of the room. The trademark black .45 ACP pistols lay casually on the top of the French desk. The muzzles pointed carelessly towards the entry door.

A dour man with thick black hair and hands scarred from his former street fighting days, Hussein now had others to kill for him. It was rumored he still used his guns to murder those who displeased him. His flat black eyes showed no joy or compassion, and the trademark mustache hung heavily over his upper lip. Today he was dressed in khaki fatigues that he found more comfortable than a Western Style suit coat and tie.

Members of his personal bodyguard stood inside and outside the doorway. Each held a machine pistol, and submitted anyone entering the room to a full body search after they had passed through an airport style metal detector. A trained, bomb-sniffing dog waited outside the doorway under the watchful gaze of its handler. Saddam Hussein protected himself not only from the masses—most of whom were too poor and frightened to attempt anything so bold as assassination—but also from the colonels in his own armed forces.

Generals could be watched easily. They had achieved their rank, and as long as the graft was not terribly expensive, generals understood their place. It was the anxious colonels who always seemed to be plotting grander schemes and greater glory. Saddam went through a lot of colonels.

He looked up to the two people standing twenty paces from his desk. He nodded as he went down the target list: Tel Aviv, Jerusalem, Haifa, Kuwait City, Tehran, Tabriz, Qom, Al-Jawf, Riyadh, and Ankara.

"Add Amman and Damascus to this list. They were cowards who buckled to Bush." It came out BUUUUSH. Every time he considered the former American President, his eyes bulged a little wider and his blood pressure rose a bit higher. "They are not Arab brothers; they are American lackeys," he spat.

Colonel Duri nodded and mentally added the names to the target list. He had no paper or anything to write with. He was painfully aware that at least two rifles were pointed at the center of his back—one of the prices for serving the Great Leader.

The other person standing next to Duri was nicknamed Doctor Germ by Western weapons experts. Doctor Rihab Rashida al-Awazi was a rather plain woman at age forty-two. It was hard to reconcile this new mother of a baby girl with being Saddam’s chief chemical and biological weapons architect. Her black hair pulled back in a loose bun, she stood with hands folded before her. The printed dress hung loosely over her shoulders. She simply did not look like someone who had designed a weapon system capable of killing cities.

"The warheads, Doctor. They will work with this wonder weapon from our Chinese friends?"

She nodded quietly. It was her wonder weapon; the Chinese simply provided the manufacturing facilities. She kept her peace. It was best not to anger the Great Leader.

"We are expecting to receive five casks. They each hold maybe twenty liters of VX-Beta."

"And how much per warhead?" Saddam asked, looking back to the target list.

"One liter per warhead. That should have a dispersal radius of five kilometers."

Saddam pulled at his mustache. "The effects?"

She lifted her head proudly, for VX-Beta was primarily her invention. Western analysts called VX-Beta the City Killer. Iraq had to mass-produce the chemical in China. Iraq simply did not have the capacity to produce the required amounts without the Americans discovering something. "There is no antidote. There is no degradation in effects. Wherever you aim the missile, they will die. VX-Beta will continue to kill indefinitely. The tests in China indicate they continue to have lethal effects in areas exposed to weather for the past several years. It is no longer simply a persistent chemical agent, it is a permanent chemical agent," Rashida al-Awazi concluded triumphantly.

"You are certain?" Saddam asked, his eyes dead cold.

Without blinking, Rashida al-Awazi replied boldly, "Yes."

Saddam shifted his focus back to Colonel Duri. "When is the delivery scheduled?"

"Friday night."

Saddam nodded carefully. "We will then stage the incident on Wednesday."

Duri smiled slightly. "Yes, sir. It doesn’t matter where UNSCOM goes, we will deny the weapon inspection teams access to the hotels if need be. It should focus the American satellites and spy planes on those facilities."

"And away from the sea," finished Saddam.

United Nations Special Commission (UNSCOM) served as an umbrella organization for America’s weapon inspection program. This too changed. At the end of the Gulf War, Iraq held its breath under the threat of the massive Allied Armies. Saddam signed agreements permitting the West to search for banned weapons throughout his country. The alternative had been annihilation, but who would be so stupid as to believe he would live up to the agreements? The Americans—that’s who.

"Yes, away from the sea," agreed Duri.

"And the missiles?"

"By early next year, twenty Al-Hussein and thirty-five Al-Abbas will be fitted with VX-Beta specific warheads. We probably will be ready to launch sometime in mid-February."

Saddam bristled somewhat at the mention of the Al-Abbas missile. It had a range one hundred fifty kilometers greater than the Al-Hussein named after himself.

"Valentine’s Day. We will do it when the Americans show their sentimental weakness. You will be able to hit the carriers?" he asked eagerly.

Duri had no idea whether the modified SCUD missiles could even find the USS George Washington or USS Nimitz carriers. The SCUD was basically an unguided missile that more or less landed within twenty kilometers of where it was sent—if all went well. Of course, to admit something that might not be as the Great Leader believed could be fatal—especially when they were planning the deaths of thousands of Jews and Arabs. "Yes," he lied.

Saddam held his gaze and looked back to the target list. "You’ll be aiming more than one at these targets?"

"The Jews get three each, as do the Iranians and Saudis. The rest are distributed among the other targets," he explained.

Saddam rubbed his hands together. "And will they suffer as they die? Will the Jews who bombed my reactor finally be punished?"

Rihab Rashida al-Awazi replied clinically, "First they will have severe convulsions. The spasms will be so violent that even those with biological warfare suits will succumb. Some will lapse into comas; others will simply feel their ability to breathe cease. Death will come eventually. The attacks will come without warning."

"As they deserve," concluded Saddam. He fixed his gaze on Duri and said, "Do it."

Colonel Duri saluted, realizing he had been dismissed.

AP November 12, 1997—Hundreds of Iraqi citizens were ushered into presidential compounds to act as human shields against possible American strikes on suspected weapons depot facilities. UNSCOM inspectors were refused entry to suspected Iraqi weapon facilities.

AP November 14, 1997—Ambassador Richard Butler, the head of the UNSCOM weapons inspection teams, decided to pull all inspection teams out of Iraq. The turmoil surrounding suspect weapons sites amid rumors of increased activity around the USS George Washington and USS Nimitz battle groups makes it impossible to continue their mission.

 

"Should foreign nations… deceived by [an] appearance of division and weakness, render it necessary to vindicate by arms the injuries to our country, I believe… that the spirit of the revolution is unextinguished, and that the cultivators of peace will again, as on that occasion, be transformed at once into a nation of warriors who will leave us nothing to fear for the natural and national rights of our country."

Thomas Jefferson 1809

Chapter 1.

Washington, D.C.
Saturday, November 15, 1997, 10:00 AM EST

Brian Stillwell walked through the metal detectors and retrieved his briefcase from the Marine guard after passing through the security checkpoint to the Pentagon’s E ring. While the checkpoint looked like most airport security checkpoints, the difference was that the Marine guards actually watched the monitors and checked for weapons. They had 9mm Beretta pistols strapped to their sides and M16 A2 rifles nearby on ready-racks.

He followed the signs to the Tank. The Tank was a secure, windowless room buried beneath ground level that was impervious to all known forms of surveillance technology. Of course, in the current era of peace and goodwill, one only worried about Chinese nukes, the burgeoning Indian Navy, a collection of Arabs, starving Korean madmen, and the occasional Russian weapon of mass destruction gone missing. Oh for the Cold War days, when an enemy could be clearly drawn on the map. You counted their tanks; they counted your fighters. Now you had to worry about Ebola showing up in somebody’s shaving kit at JFK.

The National Security Advisor, the Deputy Secretary of State for Middle Eastern Affairs, the Secretary of the Navy, a handful of generals, and other spooks preceded Brian into the Tank. All were checked against a retinal scan and a Marine guard checked off each name on a clipboard before entering. Something heavy indeed must be going down to pull this many self-appointed VIPs away from their Saturday morning play times. Not that it mattered to Stillwell; he was dressed in black jeans, an Annapolis sweatshirt, and new Nikes. He had no reverence for most of those present, except the military men who had put it on the line and the Marine guards who might end up in some forsaken no-name place fighting for God and country.

Stillwell found a spot reserved for him. He moved his name card out of the way to set his notepad before him and his briefcase next to the chair. He found himself seated at a table next to a collection of spooks and someone from the FBI (probably the counter-terrorism unit). These days everything seemed to boil down to countering some sort of threat. Since flight 800 had turned into a fireworks display over Long Island Sound and Oklahoma City had erupted into a morning killing spree, no one seemed to rule out terrorism—domestic or otherwise. It was the otherwise that brought Brian to this airless, windowless room on a lovely fall day.

Outside, the sun was shining a warm brilliance still possible for mid-November in Washington. The grass remained green with birds chirping in varicolored trees. Lawn tractors were busily scooping leaves into pull-behind carts, kids were chasing basketballs across hardtop, and others chased the elusive oblong football. The NFL and NBA were in full swing, and Saturday mornings were a great time for kids to play at being the next Michael Jordan or Joe Montana.

Brian lived in a world populated by grainy satellite photos, dossiers of crazed world leaders, and deadly weapons most people had never heard of. He was an expert, for sale to the highest bidder, as long as the bidder was a government or business friendly to Uncle Sam. These days friendship was defined by the largest illegal campaign contribution made in the most recent election. Brian sometimes mused whether the crooks in the current administration or the bad guys on the other side of the world represented a greater threat. He suspected it was still the bad guys on the other side of the world.

The normal introductions were made. Surprisingly, the National Security Advisor took control of the meeting. Usually, something in the Tank was the purview of the Joint Chiefs. A map of the Persian Gulf snapped up on the digital display screen at the end of the Tank. Brian sighed; another oil mess. Considering the map was centered on Kuwait, Iraq, and Iran, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out Saddam was up to something.

Brian believed the Bush Administration should have let the 24th Mechanized Infantry and the 101st Airborne roll into Baghdad when they had the chance. It would have simplified life. Instead, Uncle had parleyed away a battlefield victory for an expensive stalemate. It kept precious resources monitoring Saddam, when the real enemy was across the Persian Gulf working on their own missile platforms, biological weapons, and nuclear bombs. Nightmarish artifacts recently procured from the disintegrating Soviet Empire—All for the glory of Allah.

A briefing officer stepped to the podium that controlled the screen. He was arrayed in full dress blues, obviously young, and intense. A prominent Adam’s apple bobbed as he gulped air waiting for the NSA to finish his introduction. Stillwell had been that briefing officer once, albeit, not here and not before this many heavies. He had brought the bad news about many nasty problems before generals, admirals, and the odd senator. Thankfully, many of those problems never made it to CNN or the Washington Post.

"Approximately twelve hours ago, this series of photos was taken by an unscheduled U-2 flight. This particular flight followed the course of the Tigris River from Baghdad to the Shat al Arab." A red dotted border drew a southeastern line from the center of Iraq to the narrow access Saddam had to the Persian Gulf and ultimately to Western ports. It made sense to run unscheduled U-2 reconnaissance flights, because Saddam had certainly bought the overflight schedules for American satellites from our steadfast allies in the Russian Federation—or maybe it was the French. Brian mused how long it would be before Tony Blair, the British Prime Minister, would tire of this expensive game. The screen switched to the hazy graininess associated with infrared and high altitude night vision photography.

"The U-2 continued into the Gulf for approximately one hundred klicks before turning west and landing inside Kuwait." Brian wondered how many of the civilians did not know that klick was slang for kilometer. Regardless of Arab solidarity, Kuwait made sure the United States had whatever facilities it required to keep the nightmare to the north at bay. The Iraqi invasion during the 1990 summer had created an anomaly—pragmatic Arab leadership.

The next photo was a reconnaissance from some other time. It revealed the conning tower of a submarine with the number 404 clearly painted in white on the side. "This is a file photo of a Chinese Han Class PLAN naval submarine. It is a nuclear powered boat placed in service in 1988. It is comparable to a Russian Victor Class boat, and this particular boat is capable of launching surface-to-surface missiles.

"We know the Chinese do not take kindly to American battle groups paying close attention to their activities. In October 1994, J-7III fighters challenged an S-3B anti-submarine warfare plane from the Kitty Hawk. There are five known boats in this class, although the first boat—the 401—is not believed to be in service due to radiation leaks." He paused as the screen dissolved into another photo from the U-2.

"Last night a Han Class boat—the 404—was spotted on the surface fifty klicks from the mouth of the Tigris River." The screen dissolved to the overhead silhouette identified as a Han Class boat.

Stillwell sat forward in his chair. A Chinese SSN on the surface in the Persian Gulf, as close as possible to Iraq in the middle of the night, was not supposed to happen. A decided rumble emerged across the room. Everyone, except some of the State Department and White House aides, recognized the gravity of the reconnaissance photo on display. Chinese boats did not play outside the South China Sea. Certainly, they were not supposed to be bobbing next to two Carrier Battle Groups. Since the Gulf War, the Persian Gulf was tacitly acknowledged as an American asset.

"The next series of photos are a composite of over one hundred taken by the U-2." He let the imagery speak for itself.

A surface boat appeared. It looked like some sort of light freighter or tugboat. There were four yellowish blobs on deck. Yellow seemed an odd color to use for a clandestine rendezvous. The color screamed like a beacon. Not exactly the effect Saddam or the Chinese were attempting to create.

A greater number of reddish blobs appeared on the deck of the submarine aft of the conning tower and forward of the fin. A black hole materialized on the submarine’s deck. Brian remembered the Han as having missile tubes forward of the conning tower. This hole appeared to be square—more like a platform. Could the Chinese have converted one of their boats to be some sort of submerged delivery truck? They were certainly working on a new class that would retire the Han boats, but that was scheduled for sometime in the next century. The surface ship pulled along side the submarine. What appeared to be a crane began moving across the deck. It was unclear, however, whether the submarine was delivering or receiving.

The next series of photographs depicted a macabre pantomime. Abruptly, three red blobs from the submarine disappeared into the Gulf. The other red blobs scrambled away towards the conning tower. The black hole in the deck disappeared and the submarine sank beneath the waves. The remaining blobs on deck never reentered the boat. Brian concluded the blobs had to be men. Why were they dressed in yellow and red?

The final series of photos showed flashes from the boat. Had they abandoned their men to the sea? What kind of captain makes a decision like that? Submarine crews are small families trapped inside a steel tube beneath the waves for months at a time. Leaving men behind to fend for themselves was certainly out of character, regardless of the navy.

Stillwell stared at the last image. Already, questions were being fired at the briefing officer.

"Where is the Chinese sub now?"

"Still in the Gulf."

"And the surface vessel?"

"Unknown—most likely port of origin was Basra."

"What happened to the red guys?"

"Unknown—presumed dead."

"Why’d the Chinese leave their own guys?"

"Unknown—maybe they detected the U-2."

"What do you know?"

"Nothing for sure."

"What do you think you know?"

Stillwell cleared his throat. "Excuse me, Captain." The idea of civility and politeness from someone as antisocial as Stillwell caused some of the hubbub to subside, and most everyone turned in his direction.

He sat up. "Does anyone have any idea why the Iraqis shot those Chinese sailors?"

"What shots?" demanded the Navy Secretary.

The NSA held up his hand commanding silence and turned back to Stillwell. This was something no one had mentioned up to this point. "Go on, Mister Stillwell."

"The last picture after the submarine disappears. There are flashes from the surface vessel." The photo reappeared on the screen. "Now, something certainly scared the Chinese captain. He dropped back into the Gulf without waiting for his men to get back inside. You know what—the same thing scared the Iraqi sailors. Those flashes look like muzzle blasts from automatic or semiautomatic weapons. My money would be on automatic weapons. The Iraqis are shooting the Chinese guys in the water. So something scared them real bad."

He had their attention now. Center stage, all he needed was a white board to draw pictures on. Instead, he asked the briefing officer to back up several photos to the point where the red blobs disappear.

"Up to this point everything looks fine. We’ve got the Iraqis in DayGlow yellow suits, and the Chinese in DayGlow red suits. Kind of strange don’t you think? Here they are under cover of darkness, in the middle of the Gulf during a US satellite blackout. The sub is obviously black. The surface ship is probably some sort of gray or mottled brownish green thing. So why do we have a bunch of people bouncing around in reflective clothing?" His eyes locked with the Two Star sitting closer to the front of the room. The General knew the answer, but being a General in this administration brought him under suspicion. That’s why Brian had been invited. A civilian expert was needed to tell the political appointees the truth.

"Those look like biohazard suits." He changed gears suddenly on them. "Does anyone remember The Hunt for Red October? The Russian captain needs to get his crew off the Red October—so they fake a nuclear accident. They frighten everyone. There is no question but to abandon ship." He tapped his finger at the photo display. "I’ll bet the Chinese inside the sub panicked, because whatever they were working with must have been the real thing. Something went wrong or maybe it started to leak. Perhaps someone panicked on the surface ship. Everyone wanted to run away. Maybe someone thought this was a double cross or they were just plain scared and the shooting started. The easiest thing for the sub to do was to drop out of sight."

The Deputy Secretary of State interrupted, "So what are you saying?"

Brian switched his focus. "Madam Secretary, I am suggesting that something nasty was transferred between the Chinese and Iraqi boats last night. You don’t need biohazard suits to hand out lollypops. I am further suggesting that something went wrong and there are some dead bodies floating out there. What I don’t know is whether the transfer was from the Chinese to the Iraqis or vice versa. Maybe it’s nuclear, or maybe its chemicals—I really don’t know. I don’t think its something benign like bullets, because there are many ways to procure those items short of using a nuclear submarine as a delivery truck. So something scared them and they started shooting."

"You can’t be sure those were NBC suits," countered the Secretary, referring to what looked like nuclear, biological, and chemical biohazard suits everyone was wearing in the photos.

"No I can’t. However, I know we paint ours DayGlow orange, and this wasn’t a casual visit. It was clandestine—timed to happen when our satellites were looking elsewhere. If they went to all that trouble, why wear something that would catch our eye as being out of place? Saddam plays the odds. He knows we can’t watch everything all the time. They know our satellite schedules. That’s why we’re still flying U-2 surveillance, and every so often we find something interesting."

The blood slowly drained from the Secretary’s face. However the NSA saved her before she could utter some inane challenge to Stillwell. "And, Mister Stillwell, faced with a scenario as you describe, what would you recommend to the President?"

A smirk emerged. No one really wanted to hear the answer, but Brian had always worked on the principle that no one hired him to be nice. He glanced at the Two Star before replying. Their eyes locked again for the briefest of moments. "I would suggest that we hunt down the 404 and sink her if necessary. Whatever went wrong; it is obvious that the transfer was not completed. That means whatever it is could still be on the 404. In addition, I recommend we find the stuff that was on the Iraqi boat."

"Two acts of war," chided Madam Secretary. "Generally, we get the recommendation for only one act of war at a time. May I remind you, the Chinese government is a nuclear power on the Pacific Rim? It is not in our interest to start a shooting war with the Chinese. Furthermore, may I remind you, that no one knows this is an Iraqi boat? Or that anything like the weapons you describe were even present."

"With all due respect, Madam Secretary," replied Brian. He had no respect for the woman. She was an idiot manning an important foreign policy position because her politics aligned properly on abortion. "No one is suggesting we start a shooting war, but if nothing is amiss, then why are we all here? To see a picture of the tooth fairy?" He was warmed up and ready for a fight. "Are we to believe nothing happened last night? You have evidence of a Chinese nuclear submarine penetrating the Persian Gulf to meet with a boat most likely based out of Basra. We are here, Madam Secretary, because someone believes Saddam Hussein just got his hands on something nasty enough to make good all the threats he’s been issuing since the Gulf War."

"Your suggestions will certainly be considered, Mister Stillwell." With that, the NSA dismissed Brian from the discussion. There were other ideas—ideas less plausible and more palatable to the current administration. Brian did not pay much attention to the discussion. His gut told him he was right. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he prayed he was wrong.

Chapter 2.

Roselle, Illinois.
Saturday, November 15, 1997, 10:00 AM CST

Jim Harper turned right into the strip mall at Plum Grove and Nerge. It had a Walgreen’s on one end of the mall and a video rental store on the other. It was like a hundred other strip malls popping up in the cornfields of the northern and western Chicago suburbs. In the few years he had lived here, the sprawling growth of Dupage and Kane counties continued outwards. What had once been small farming communities now hosted over 250,000 people in a five-mile radius from where he was standing.

It was starting to get cold. Winter’s icy fingers were beginning to gather their grip. Already the sky had changed to battleship gray and a cold breeze rode over the prairie. The occasional snowflake flitted through the air. He could feel the hardness of the coming winter. The places on his body pockmarked with scars, the joints once twisted out of shape, and the broken bones, long since healed, reminded him of his mortality.

Only today, as most Saturdays, was not a day for combat, remembrance, or duty. The roar and smoke of battle were from days gone by. The blood and sweat endured during peace and war dim memories. Saturdays were those moments when Harper reaped a small reward. A time away from his day job when he could pass on a sense of honor to those who would listen. Saturdays were spent teaching kids and adults Tae Kwon Do.

On Saturdays, James Harper instructed lower belts in sparring, kicking, and punching basics. A fourth degree black belt, he was considered a master instructor. After so many years, he still felt the magic of training someone in the martial arts—to take an average person and transform them into a trained fighter. Training someone to fight was only half of the journey. The other half involved developing a sense of duty and honor. Honor not based on eastern mysticism, rather, he sought to instill a sense of personal integrity. His honor was rooted in the belief that life is precious and God-given. Life is not a trivial commodity to be traded lightly. He certainly knew the cost of life. Warriors generally crave peace and shun war.

As far as anyone knew, Jim Harper was a successful businessman. A man happily married with two children, a nice house, and a big dog. Harper had achieved the American dream. Granted, he could obliterate the ten-ring on any target from fifty yards. Yes, he knew how to make a bomb out of household items. Indeed, he could teach the Marine close quarter combat instructors a couple of things. However, those were secrets from a past Harper rarely thought of. He had been a warrior; now he was content to be husband and father, and a karate instructor on Saturdays.

Old habits born out of survival never die. He did notice the pickup truck pulling into the parking lot five slots down from his parking spot. The same truck had picked him up as he left his house—two Caucasian males in a late model Ford F-150. They simply parked and sat in their truck. After so many years, who would be interested in him again?

He opened the rear hatch of his Nissan Pathfinder and grabbed the gym bag containing his uniform, belt, and pads. Leaning into the rear of his truck, he pulled the cased Glock 19 from its compartment. Pretending to examine something in the gym bag, he loaded a fifteen round magazine into the Glock, racked the slide, and slipped the pistol into his coat pocket.

A Glock 19 is certainly close to the perfect weapon for a defensive pistol. Unlike other weapons, a Glock can digest just about any bullet configuration it is fed. Glocks rarely jam. They work in sand, water, heat, and cold. Jim carried 115 grain Gold Dot Hollow Points. A 9mm may not produce a one shot stop, but it does deliver a punch accompanied by an ear-ringing bang.

Harper dropped the gym bag on the ground behind his truck, closed the hatch, and turned towards the two in the pickup. He did not like people following him. He liked people even less who lurked outside of his home. So, with a wave and a smile, he walked over to the pickup.

The goons inside the pickup were caught off guard. Harper closed the distance before the two had a chance to react. He grabbed the driver’s side door and opened it, bringing the Glock into view for the first time. Still smiling he said, "You boys have been following me." Stepping in, he jammed the muzzle into the ribs of the driver and pulled a Sig 229 from the driver’s shoulder holster. "I don’t like being followed." He continued flipping the safety off the Sig while pointing it at the passenger. "So if I see you around my house, or outside this school or anywhere else—someone could get hurt." He chuckled nodding to the passenger. "I presume you have something similar to your friend here. I’ll give you three seconds to drop it in his lap." The Sig turned towards the passenger’s kneecap.

The willingness to use necessary force is a barrier everyone must face. These two had read Harper’s dossier. The passenger knew that if Harper got to four seconds without results, his knee would be shattered. Harper was hardly a normal suburban businessman. Besides, they were simply here to observe and not to take a tour of the local trauma wards.

A Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum dropped neatly between the driver’s legs. "That was right neighborly of you." He frowned at the passenger. "I’m sure you have a good reason to be carrying a fine cannon like that." He dropped the Sig into his other pocket and scooped up the .44. "So let me make sure we understand each other. If I see you again, you’ll be spending months in the hospital." The frown vanished and twinkling eyes turned colder than the sky above. "You do something really stupid, they’ll be hauling you away in pieces."

The Glock and the Smith vanished into his coat. A smile returned and Harper said gleefully, "Have a nice day." He stepped back and kicked the door shut. To emphasize his point, he thrust-kicked the driver’s door, leaving the heal print of his cowboy boot. The engine turned over and the pickup backed out of the slot. His shadows drove away without looking back. Harper should have been happy with his success, instead, a grim foreboding settled in a cold spot between his shoulder blades. It had been a long time since he had to chase off shadows such as these. Now they were back. Someone was testing the waters again.

Chapter 3.

Washington, D.C.
Saturday, November 15, 1997, 10:45 AM EST

They had been briefed. Obviously, Iraq and Red China were up to mischief. Certainly, those two players were replacing the Soviet Union as the world’s chief troublemakers. The briefing was breaking up. A small, select group would meet to make some decision—probably the wrong one—and check in with CNN to see if anything else were amiss. Brian Stillwell had little time for such antics.

He was surprised when the National Security Advisor told him to stay. The meeting after the briefing came down to the two star general, a CIA spook, someone from the White House, and Lisa Borden, the Deputy Secretary of State.

"Why have you included Mister Stillwell?" asked Lisa.

"Because, we need someone who will tell us the politically incorrect things we need to hear." The NSA smiled. "He has no love for our president. He thinks you folks at State have made disastrous decisions in the Middle East and China. He’s against the bailout of Russia, and he supports greater defense spending—kind of a nuke ‘em ‘til they glow attitude. He doesn’t really like me. Right now, all we have in this room are people you and I can intimidate. Stillwell doesn’t care." He paused.

"In addition to all those flaws, Mister Stillwell is one of the top experts on unconventional weapons systems in the country. We know that something was passed from China to Iraq, or perhaps vice versa," he teased with a knowing look in Brian’s direction. "We think it might be a weapon of mass destruction. Something went wrong during the transfer and a Chinese submarine might be experiencing some sort of poisoning. We saw what appeared to be casualties, and we have a big problem if that madman really does get his hands on weapons of mass destruction."

Stillwell coughed and said sarcastically, "In case you folks haven’t been following the news, that madman already has weapons of mass destruction."

Lisa glared at the NSA, but kept her own council for the moment.

The spook broke his silence for the first time. "I’ve got the briefing books you requested for this meeting. Louis Edwards is on his way to meet the team leader we discussed this morning."

"Excuse me, but I take it you saw these photos a long time before the rest of us," interrupted Brian.

"Who’s Louis Edwards?" demanded Lisa.

The spook looked across the table to the NSA. There was a brief nod before the spook replied, "Louis Edwards is a member of the intelligence community. He has worked on black ops for the past twenty years. These include operations against friendly and hostile governments. From time to time, Mister Edwards has had an opportunity to work with members of the elite services."

"He means Army Rangers, DELTA Force, and that sort of thing," injected Brian.

"Yes, well, the man the computers came up with for Team Leader is no longer employed by the United States Government; however, Mister Edwards has worked with him on several occasions, and it was felt that he should be positioned to talk with our candidate pending the approval of this committee and the strictures of time."

"He means we’re really scared this time, and we don’t have much time to create the usual bureaucratic disaster you folks at State are so capable of creating," continued Brian. His eyes never left Lisa Borden’s perplexed features. He shifted his gaze back to the spook. Suffering fools was not something at which Brian excelled. "Now that we’ve explained absolutely nothing about Louis Edwards beyond the obvious, could you answer my question? I take it you saw these photos a long time before the rest of us."

"Yes, sir," explained the spook. He wore no nametag. He had no visible security badge like the rest of them. His posture was something other than the usual bureaucrat encountered at Langley. Perhaps this was something other than an ordinary spook. "We saw these photos nearly seven hours ago. I came to the same conclusions as you did, Mister Stillwell. I think we have a very bad situation on our hands."

"That’s why you’re still here," explained the NSA. "You passed my test, as much as I don’t like you. You made sense this morning. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not about to authorize military action against a Chinese submarine. I do think, however, that covert action against Iraq is in order. At this moment, a Presidential Finding is being signed to that effect." He turned to Lisa. "Your role here is a courtesy. The President made it quite clear that State be kept in the loop. I think that also means CNN stays out of the loop for the moment. All media control will be run from the White House." He smiled one more time. "Any questions anyone has will be routed through Arthur." The smile faded slightly. "He’s our Ollie North. If something goes wrong, or someone needs a Judas goat, Arthur has volunteered to fill the role."

Of course, if anyone believed Arthur volunteered out of the goodness of his patriotic heart, then someone should examine his Bahamian bank account. Arthur would eventually become another of those faceless, nameless bureaucrats that were never hired and never fired, but had complete access to the inner workings of government. Even the cynical Stillwell was somewhat shocked at the NSA’s blunt political calculation.

"Who’s going to lead this team?" Lisa’s eyes were aimed at the NSA, but her question was answered by the spook.

"Our recommendation is to insert a covert team into southern Iraq and penetrate Iraq’s central Data Center. We have no reason to believe we will be able to apply the correct resources in tracking these weapons down now that the Iraqis have had sufficient time to move them in country.

"However, the central Data Center is a major Iraqi installation. It is connected to every major weapon, command, and control center in Iraq. We believe that the Data Center holds the information to tell us exactly who, what, where, and how the Iraqis are preparing banned weapons systems."

"How do you know that?" snapped Lisa Borden.

"The tooth fairy," offered Brian.

He received a collective set of dirty looks from everyone except the spook and the Two Star.

The spook looked over the table to Lisa and replied, "We know this because we’ve been inside once before. Back in ’92."

"Why aren’t we still there?" she demanded.

Brian thought of another one liner, but managed to restrain himself.

"We had a presence on their network for almost twelve months. We learned a great deal about how Saddam moves money, how he shuffles his doubles, and the post-war condition of his major command bunkers," answered the spook.

"You need to understand the West Germans; they’re suppose to be our allies. They built several nuclear bomb-proof shelters a hundred meters below the ground on top of big springs," explained Brian. "If we didn’t think Saddam was a bleeding maniac, we might think he’s a flipping gopher. He has tunnels with electric cars to take him from bunker to bunker. Do you know what we developed during the Gulf War? A bomb that could drill down over a one hundred meters and then blow up. It was really quite ingenious—kind of wish I’d thought of it. Unfortunately, the media folks and State Department schmucks fell in love with the one-hundred-hour war and we never got a chance to blow Saddam all over the inside of one of his pretty German bunkers."

The spook rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath, "To answer your question about the team leader."

"Yes, my question," snapped Lisa.

"To accomplish our objectives, we need someone with knowledge of the desert, language skills, proven combat experience, and who can not be tied directly to the US government," explained the spook.

Another political calculation was revealed to this select group: a black operation where only someone named Arthur would allegedly have any knowledge or planning. An icy tingling reached down Brian’s spine. The administration was scared. This entire scenario had not been concocted this morning. They must have preplanned for something like this. They were following some sort of war plan. As with any plan, it tended to unravel once the shooting started. Brian wondered if anyone besides the Two Star and spook realized this was going to happen. Perhaps Arthur was polishing his sword so he could fall on it at an opportune moment.

"What sort of team? If you don’t mind me asking," pressed Brian.

The spook handed them a black covered briefing book. There were no numbers, titles, or logos on the binders. Usually, these things had a bar code in the lower left-hand corner. Brian looked at the spook again. Who was this guy?

"If you’ll turn to page two, I’ll explain the team composition."

Page one consisted of a map and plot of the U-2, the Iraqi boat, and the submarine paths. Brian fingered the map for a moment before looking up. "Is anyone tracking this sub?"

"You don’t have a need to know, Mister Stillwell," replied Arthur.

Stillwell locked eyes with Arthur. Arthur looked away quickly. Well, one thing was certain. Arthur was no Ollie North, and this administration better make sure Arthur never appeared in front of a Senate committee. He would sound more like Janet Reno than Ollie North. Brian turned to the next page.

"The team composition requires a team leader, weapons expert, protective services fire team experienced in chemical, biological and nuclear weapon disposal, and a computer database expert. That’s a seven-man team. They will be able to communicate via satellite link to our command post."

Brian’s icy tingle frosted over into a full-fledged glacier. His eyes were riveted to the words weapons expert. Oh, he had passed a test today, but not for being the annoying analyst in the back of the room. The test Brian passed was a database search, and he was still fogging the mirror. His name must have come out on top. This was not going to be handed off to an ineffective UN Weapons Inspection Team. This was going to be Uncle’s little party—a party where people usually end up dead, or missing, or both.

"I believe you’ve found your role in all of this," smiled the NSA. He withdrew an envelope from his suit coat pocket. "You’ll find everything very much in order. The only abnormality is that this letter is actually signed by the Secretary of the Army." The smile turned to a prankster’s smirk. "We had to get him out of bed this morning to sign it. Arthur took care of all the paperwork."

Brian stared at the proffered letter like it was a wiggling, venomous viper. Letters from politicians in meetings like these never came to good ends. Gingerly, Brian accepted the letter.

Brian opened the envelope and stared at the letter.

"It says you’ve been reactivated as a First Lieutenant, United States Army. I hope you didn’t have any plans this evening, because as of now, you’re in the army, son."

Brian stared open-mouthed at the NSA. Lisa Borden found it all rather amusing. It was comeuppance due for such a rude man.

"You do remember how to fire a gun?" asked the NSA.

Stillwell snapped back to reality. "Oh yes, sir. Wish I had one right now." Arthur leaned forward and plucked the letter from Brian’s fingers.

"I’ll keep it safe for you," explained Arthur.

"Just make sure you shred it both ways," suggested Brian.

Arthur nodded as he stole the letter away into his suit coat pocket.

Stillwell realized what was strange about the Two Star General. He had no nametag. All officers were required to wear a nametag. The medals and chevrons looked real enough. He had the bearing of man who had been there. Blood and death were no strangers to this warrior. Yet Brian could not place a name with the face, and this nameless, faceless general sat at a table deciding his future. A future with limited possibilities.

"The protective service fire team is being selected as we speak," the Two Star read from his own notes. "It will be a Force Recon detachment. These men will not have any immediate family and only limited ties to extended family. Their service records have been altered to indicate training accidents, discharge, or disqualification for other reasons. Obviously, we can’t use the same excuse for everyone. In the event someone decides to look, we need a clean slate for these men." The General looked across the table at a civilian who had just become a soldier again. He found it astounding that a reserve officer would be sent on a covert op into Indian country.

"Their weapons will be standard issue. Their clothing will be authentic to the region and all are Arabic speakers." He paused again and looked at the nameless spook. "All, that is, except Lieutenant Stillwell here. Country infiltration and exit will be accomplished by land vehicle. Air evacuation is only a last resort."

If anyone had bothered to look at a map, they would have realized the supporting details for this mission were bogus. The Iraqi Data Center was deep inside the southern no-fly zone in fairly rough terrain. The ground was rent with gullies gouged through soft sand and hard rocks. It was uneven and it rained very little. The wind could be fierce, raising deadly sandstorms, and the heat could leach the water out of any man.

They were heading for the edges of the Syrian Desert while Saddam lay to the north along the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers. To the west lay too much desert and hostile Arab territory before arriving in Israel. To the East awaited Kuwait, but if anyone figured out what they were about, an exit back to Kuwait would vanish. Of course, the map indicated a border to the south and refuge in Saudi Arabia. Considering the prize they were after—Saddam’s total order of battle for both conventional and unconventional weapons—simple lines drawn on maps would not impede the pursuit. Besides, the great Saudi desert might do the job nicely for Saddam.

Stillwell nodded slightly. The unspoken truth here involved his capture. A weapon expert of his caliber could not fall into Saddam’s hands. He wondered who had the chore of killing him to avoid capture. If Brian were designing this mission, all four of the Force Recon Marines would be given the same order either as a group or in private. "Do I get a blindfold or a cigarette, Sir?"

The NSA chuckled, "Brian, let’s not be so glum. No one is going to get killed, and as soon as you’re back, this letter Arthur has disappears. You’ll have the personal thanks of the President and the heartfelt gratitude of the country. We find out what Saddam’s up to and fix it so it doesn’t work anymore."

"All right, so we’ve got our weapons expert and some marines to shoot bad guys. So who’s the computer whiz and team leader?"

"You have such a way with words, Lisa," snapped the NSA. He flipped the page on the briefing folder to a photograph of a soldier in fatigues. "May I present Major James Harper, United States Special Forces Retired. He will serve in both capacities."

Brian found it somewhat curious that nowhere on the dossier or photograph was there an indication of service branch or unit designation. There were no insignia like Navy SEAL or DELTA. This Harper seemed as faceless and nameless as the spook sitting next to him. Special Forces was an ambiguous title.

"He was at the top on both lists of available personnel who fit our mission criteria," continued the spook. "Major Harper is conversant with most information technology likely to be encountered on the mission. He has previously broken into Iraqi computer systems and—"

Lisa Borden looked up from the briefing book. "It says under the psyche profile that he’s a born-again Christian." She laughed—not a very nice laugh. "You’re going to send some fruitcake Jesus freak on a mission into the desert? What are you, nuts?" Her voice rose with passion and volume. "Everyone knows these type of people favor Israel over everything else over there." Brian was unsure whether these type of people or Israel received more derision from Lisa Borden. But then, she was from the State Department, and American Foreign Policy seemed to be dedicated to a mission designed to deify Yassir Arafat and blame Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu for most Arab terrorism.

"That’s all we need at the UN. Saddam gets his hands on a Jew-loving, Jesus freak on a black op to one of his presidential palaces. No, gentlemen, I’m afraid State can never approve of this choice. I—"

"Ma’am!" interrupted the Two Star. "I don’t care whether State will approve or disapprove of Jim Harper. From 1980 to 1992, he took care of some this country’s biggest problems. He’s something of a legend in the Spec War community. Most everything we know about the inside of Saddam’s computer network came from Jim, and one of the reasons you’re here today is because Jim Harper stopped a mess like this once before.

"I’ve had men under my command. I wish all of them were like Harper." Something seemed to boil out of the Two Star who no longer cared about promotion. He was obviously destroying his chance for career advancement. "We are going to send in a team without support, without backup, to find something the Red Chinese gave to a crazy man. Now the only reason we don’t go in with all guns blazing is because we want the Red Chinese to like us. So, we’ll ignore the problem of a sub running loose in the Gulf, and the transmission of a weapon to the Iraqis because it is politically expedient to do so. We’re talking about sending my friend back to hell, and you’re upset because he goes to church."

Lisa Borden was as dumb as she was loud. "I don’t care if he’s King David returned from the dead. You don’t send some Bible thumper into Iraq with the possibility of the whole Arab world exploding if he gets caught!"

The NSA closed his eyes. Stillwell watched the hammer drop, and wondered as it fell—what is the agenda? He was sitting in a room with a no name spook, a Spec War Two Star general, a White House hatchet man, the National Security Advisor, and an openly hostile deputy Secretary of State. They were discussing a mission to do what? To capture chemical or nuclear weapons delivered by the Chinese. Perhaps the intention was to lose those weapons. After all, the administration owed its reelection to illegal contributions from the Chinese Government. The politics might dictate certain sensitivities towards Chinese involvement. However, there were other elements equally distressed at the prospect of heavy-duty chemical weapons being made available to Saddam. Evidently, the NSA feared the practical national security issues over a more muddled political agenda.

"Madam Secretary, I am not interested in your proclivities towards or against a person’s religion. As you are well aware, our administration is an inclusive administration. The word of the day is diversity. Now, according to Mister Stillwell here, our focus should be on the containment of what we saw this morning. I believe he would like to stomp on everything. It’s my job to make national security decisions, and it is my job to determine the best tool to implement those decisions. I’ll repeat for the last time: You are here as a courtesy, and we are talking about a very sensitive issue here. Leaks to the press or others will not be permitted. On this point the President has been explicit." Lisa Borden seemed to shrink back into her chair with each statement. Both knew who would prevail today in this room. It was only a battle, not the war.

"Perhaps we can proceed with Mister Harper’s credentials," he concluded.

The nameless spook looked up from his report. "I believe some background may be in order. We know Iraq has been able to get its hands on a number of Hewlett Packard (HP) machines. Our best intelligence indicates these machines were diverted from France during a replacement of HP-9000 with IBM RS-6000 systems. The excuse for the replacement is a general market trend towards IBM equipment in Europe. The HPs were supposed to be transshipped back to England. However, the computers returned were about a dozen 386 PC clones and the HP boxes disappeared.

"We believe the HP’s shipment arrived in Amman, Jordan. It is a simple matter of trucking the equipment across the border and into the desert. If all software licenses were left in place, the Iraqi’s have gotten their hands on about twenty gigabytes of hard disk, five hundred megabytes of memory, and two Oracle 7.1 databases. The software is more than adequate to assist the Iraqi government in managing any secret weapons’ research.

"One of the things we learned during the Gulf War was the existence of an extensive fiber optic network. With this equipment, they can connect from a variety of locations to central servers. Such a network enables the Iraqis to continue moving weapon prototypes about in an elaborate shell game. Even with satellite and reconnaissance over flights, we are not completely certain where everything is located. These databases have the precise information we need.

"We know these machines exist. We know approximately where they are located, and we have an electronic backdoor into these systems." He looked around the table. "Jim Harper’s last mission, before retiring, compromised this network. We have some hidden user accounts at both the operating system and database level. Unfortunately, the Iraqis do not allow any dialup access at all to their networks. They have hardened their systems to outside attack. We need to get to a terminal and execute an attack from inside the Iraqi network.

"Jim Harper is the logical choice. He knows how the network was put together. It is our assessment that you, Mister Stillwell, working with Mister Harper have the best chance of figuring out where and what weapons systems still exist in Iraq. We believe the data would be in real time. Therefore, we could effectively take out all weapon sites in one stroke."

It sounded so tidy on paper. Brian shook his head, smiling in spite of himself. If they had so many clever facts about Saddam’s computers, why not use a couple of stray smart bombs and blast them to bits? Why allow the equipment into Iraq in the first place? Brian had so many questions, and quite a few bad answers. The other nagging fact: it was doubtful that even a massive Tomahawk cruise missile and air campaign could completely eliminate the threat.

"You have a comment?" inquired the NSA.

"I don’t suppose you’ve asked the Iraqis if it’s okay to raid their database, call up the US Navy on the phone, and bomb their research sites back to the Stone Age. I presume they might be somewhat upset with our presence there. They might even be shooting at us. Besides, it takes time to raid a database and find the right data." He held up his hand. "But I know the answer. We have four Marines to hold off the Republican Guard, that makes all the difference in my mind." He spat out the last.