Seal Team Seven: Hostile Fire Part 2

"Hey, I buy it, I drink it," Jaybird called out. The senior chief grinned. He was panting too hard to respond.

The SEALs were released for the day at 1600, and a short time later, Murdock looked up from his desk to see Fernandez standing in the door.

"You have time now, Cap?" The commander of any navy s.h.i.+p is called the captain, and sometimes the SEALs called Murdock Captain or Cap since he was in charge of their platoon, their s.h.i.+p.

"Lots of time, Fernandez. Come in and sit down." Murdock noticed a line of sweat on the SEAL's brow. He had a strange expression and sat quickly, then kept moving his hands around as if he didn't know what to do with them.

"Relax, Fernandez. We've been together now for six years. Hey, anything I can do for you, I sure as h.e.l.l will. Now, what's been bothering you?"

"That obvious? Yeah, I guess it is. I dragged down Rafii's and my score on the kill house to forty-eight. Then on the O course I came in at almost eight minutes. I'm all messed up, Cap."

"Family trouble?"

Fernandez shook his head.

"Then it must be money problems. You short on cash?"

"Not that either, Cap. Either one would be easy. What I'm fighting with right now is something that must have been coming on for a while, only I wouldn't recognize it. It's basic and goes deep. Cap, I'm just not sure that I can be a SEAL anymore."

3.

Baghdad, Iraq Asrar Fouad had been in Baghdad for two weeks setting up a meeting with the new president of Iraq, Omar Kamil. He had wondered when some of Saddam Hussein's men had killed Hussein two years ago, if that would make any difference in Iraq's posture in the Middle East. Would this newly elected president be as vicious and dictatorial as the man he deposed? He would, he did, and he carried to the extreme many of the plans that Hussein had made. Now he was actively searching for outside help in his war against America.

The chance had come through an intermediary who had been in contact with some of the al-Qaida cells in Palestine. Fouad had been to Afghanistan three years ago and taken all the specialized training in guerrilla tactics that he could get. He had led an al-Qaida cell in Palestine for the past two years. They had been active years, as he worked his way up the organization until he was one of the top planners for suicide bombers going into Israel. Now he had been invited to Iraq to talk with the president. Even with the invitation he had to wait two weeks to get an audience. He heard that most outsiders had to wait a month or two for a meeting with the great man.

He sat in a small anteroom on the ground floor of a three-story building in Baghdad that could be described only as functional. It was made of rock and concrete blocks, unpainted and rearing over a section of the city of over five million people that was part industrial and part residential. Not the worst part of the city, but near to it. Two colonels of the Iraqi Army sat across from him. They did not look at him or in any way recognize that he was in the same room. They had stepped out of an elevator moments before. One of them held a radio to his ear, grunted, and stood. The other came to his feet and they marched across the room.

"Mr. Fouad, stand up so we can search you," the shorter man with the radio said.

"I have no weapons, not even a pen or pencil. I have only my brain and it's not easy to search."

"No smart talk. Arms out wide, spread your legs." They patted him down, making certain he had no knife, no weapon of any kind.

"Now come with us." They went to the elevator, which now stood open. The two colonels went in first, then Fouad. There were only coded b.u.t.tons on the control panel. One of the men closed the door and hit one b.u.t.ton. The elevator began to go down. Fouad had no idea where the leader of Iraq might be today. It was said that he moved twice a day and never slept in the same bed two nights in a row. This to make it harder for an a.s.sa.s.sin to find him.

The elevator came to a slow stop and the door opened automatically.

"Out," the taller colonel said and nudged Fouad, who stepped off the car into a short corridor decorated with garish murals of the glorious history of Iraq. Twenty feet down the corridor they came to a huge, blast-proof, foot-thick steel door that resembled a large bank vault door. It swung open as they approached. Fouad hesitated.

"Inside," the colonel barked.

Fouad stepped past the huge door, but the two colonels stayed outside. Inside he found himself in another corridor, this one brightly lighted with pictures of Iraqi soccer stars painted on the walls. A pair of military guards with submachine guns slung on their shoulders nodded to him and waved him forward down the corridor to another huge blast-proof door. Beyond it two new armed soldiers greeted him. They ran metal detector wands over him until they were satisfied he had no metal objects, and then they led him down the long hall to a normal-sized door. One of the men knocked. A moment later the door opened and a civilian in a black suit nodded.

"Asrar Fouad?" the man asked.

"Yes. I have an appointment to see President Kamil."

"Your pa.s.sport and ident.i.ty papers."

Fouad handed them to him. The man did not look at them. They had been checked twice before in the ground-level building. He must have pa.s.sed or he wouldn't be down here. He wondered how deep in the ground they were.

"Please follow me," the black-suited man said. They went through the normal door into the next room, which was set up as a luxurious Iraqi hotel suite. It had a large living room, with four doors opening off it. The furnis.h.i.+ngs were a mixture of Iraqi and Western, with upholstered chairs and couches in three conversation sets. Oil paintings dotted the walls, and soft music came from hidden speakers. A woman without a veil brought in a tray filled with fruits and nuts and small cakes and put them on a low table.

To the left was a modern office with computers, several large screens, two desks, leather swivel chairs, file cabinets, and a TV set. One of the chairs turned and a small man with a heavy mustache but otherwise clean shaven, with lots of dark hair and heavy brows, looked at Fouad. He didn't stand.

"Ah, yes, my friend from the West Bank. I'm pleased that you could come. We have much to talk about. Come, come, and sit near the table and the fruit. May I bring you something cool to drink? A cola or a lemonade? Let's relax. I want to hear how things are going in Palestine. We're never sure how true the news reports are. Come, come."

Fouad walked to the office and sat in the upholstered chair that President Kamil pointed to. Kamil was smaller than his pictures suggested. He must stand on a lot of boxes for photos. His black hair was s.h.a.ggy and almost framed his face. His eyes came at Fouad in an intense stare, and he knew the president was evaluating him.

"Try the figs and the dates," the president said. "They are the new crop, just coming in. Delicious. Dates must be the perfect food. So sweet and good and they'll keep for years."

Fouad tried one of the dates and smiled.

"Now, Asrar Fouad, I can tell you are an anxious man. A man who has so much to do and so little time. I understand that we have some mutual friends. They have told me that you have a plan to help me bring America to her knees."

"Yes, President Kamil. I do have a plan that has been in the works for half a year. We have teams in place. We have the logistics worked out. Only the last minute, in-fact preparations are waiting to be made. We will strike at the ultimate target that every soldier of Allah dreams about."

"But you need my a.s.sistance. This is what my friends in al-Qaida tell me. I was distressed when the news finally came out that our great friend Osama bin Laden was killed by the terrorist Americans in their criminal bombings in Afghanistan."

"Yes, a tragedy, but it perhaps has brought us closer together, cemented our many al-Qaida cells throughout the world into a more workable organization."

"The plan that you sent to me is practical? You can make it work despite the increased security in criminal America?"

"Yes. The security there is laughable. We have penetrated it dozens of times with materials and goods about the same size and weight that we will need to slip our ultimate cargo into the United States. We do it from Mexico where the border is as porous as a sponge. It is there that we have the most secret operatives in place in their Border Patrol, and the inspectors who evaluate the truck s.h.i.+pments going through the San Ysidro border checkpoint."

President Kamil took a slow drink from a tall sweating gla.s.s that had been sitting on a coaster on his desk. He returned the gla.s.s, then peaked his fingers in front of his face and stared through them at Fouad. Neither spoke for a few moments. Then Kamil swiveled around and picked up a sheaf of letter-sized pages from his desk.

"This is the only copy?"

"It is. Our people have everything memorized. Usually we put nothing like this on paper, but you asked for it, so we provided it."

"I can a.s.sure you this doc.u.ment has not been duplicated here in Iraq." He pushed the pages into a shredder near his desk, and the machine turned the paper into a dozen different shapes and slices. "Now, you can breathe easier. There is no evidence."

"Yes, now that it is gone, I am feeling less vulnerable."

"I have a question," President Kamil said. "You realize that our package is not as sophisticated as those of the West. It is larger than we thought it would be and heavier, but it works. We have tested them underground three times with perfect results. Will you use a s.h.i.+p or aircraft to transport the package?"

"Our plans now call for an air s.h.i.+pment. It will be crated and camouflaged as medical MRI equipment to sustain the fiction of its size and weight. We have checked the limit on some of the cargo aircraft, and it will fit through the doors and meet all of their requirements."

"Is this the best plan? You said you couldn't guarantee us New York or Was.h.i.+ngton, DC, or even Chicago."

"Mr. President, this is not a war-winning blow. It is a strike at the heart and soul of America. It is a psychological killer that will have the Americans running around like rats inside their borders looking for a safe haven. This one blow will set back the American economy five years. It will be so devastating psychologically that Americans won't trust anyone again in the whole world. We expect that they will withdraw more than a half million troops that are now in place around the world. They will say they need them home to protect their borders from an invasion. They won't even trust their elected officials who are supposed to be helping them."

"We are giving up one of our most treasured a.s.sets."

"We are well aware of that, Mr. President. We thank you, and the whole Muslim world thanks you. But you have told us that you don't have the capacity to deliver the package where you want to. The only possibility would be a suicide aircraft, and you're not sure that you could even get that over a suitable target. This is the best way to do the job. This is cooperation at the highest level between Islamic nations and groups. It is the way with which Allah will be pleased."

President Kamil took another drink from the gla.s.s. Fouad wondered if there was something more potent in the gla.s.s than just the lemon drink. He had been in the West long enough to know of the pull, the addiction, of strong drink. For a man who had everything, anything he wanted, the temptation of some form of alcohol would be overpowering. Fouad was partial to gin in his drinks. Partly because it could not be seen, and partly because of the sting, the bite, and the flavor of the redistilled alcoholic liquor.

"I'm not worried about Allah. I'm more concerned how Omar Kamil will feel. How will I be affected? Will the West track the bomb back to me? I will be the prime suspect. The West, the savage Americans, do not yet know that I have a nuclear capability. What will they do once they learn of it? Invasion is a strong possibility. They could sweep in here overnight without the sanctions of the United Nations and wipe out our forces before we could get our aircraft into the sky. Would the Americans be that furious for losing one of their cities?"

"They will be angry, yes, but cooler heads will prevail. The Americans tend to anger quickly, and to cool down fast. They will suspect you, but there is no way to prove where a nuclear weapon comes from. There is no residue, no telltale parts, and no fingerprint of any kind they could possibly use. Without hard evidence they would have to rely on their suspicions. Al-Qaida will at once take credit for the act and let the Americans speculate where we obtained the bomb. They will discuss and debate the question for days, and then weeks and then months and the sting will wither and the hot blood will cool, and they will take no action against anyone. They won't be able to be sure where the bomb came from. There are thirteen nations in the world now with nuclear weapons. The bomb could have originated from any of them."

President Kamil's eyes drifted shut then came open. He sipped the drink and his voice took on the hint of a tremor. "Just how quickly can this all be done?"

"It took us two years to plan and carry out the strike on the Twin Towers and the Pentagon. This is much simpler, and more direct. Only a handful of people will be required. From the time you turn over the device to us until we detonate it over an American city, we have timed it out to be thirty days."

"So quickly." He frowned. "That doesn't give us much time to strengthen our defenses, to get in better radar, to post s.h.i.+ps at sea as an early warning network."

"Believe me, Mr. President. You will have no need for defenses other than your normal routines. America will not attack. Did they attack anyone after the Twin Towers? Yes, they did go into Afghanistan, but that was a slowly developing campaign. There they had many leads pointing to bin Laden."

"Thirty days." The president shook his head. "This seems like a dream, that we can deliver one of our weapons on the hated Americans, and have it accomplished in only thirty days." He took a long pull at the drink and waved his hand. The same woman as before, in long robes, came in at once, replaced the drink with a new one that was already sweating on the gla.s.s, took the empty one away, and hurried out of the room.

"Mr. Fouad. I've been battling with this decision for the past two weeks. I've talked to about half of our generals, our defense minister, all of the top people in my government. The consensus is that we go ahead with the plan. The generals, to a man, recommended that we do not give you a bomb. They counseled that we keep them for use to forward our own goals. Just the threat of the use of a nuclear bomb can have a great effect on a small country nearby. That was their suggestion."

"The military leaders make a good point, Mr. President. But you said your other advisors, the civilians, were in favor of the plan?"

"Yes. The final decision is mine. No one else's. No one to blame but me if it goes wrong." He stood and walked with slow steps to one wall where there hung a bright painting, carefully lighted, that showed a luxurious green garden br.i.m.m.i.n.g with a rainbow of blooming flowers, and trees, and a small waterfall in a shallow stream. He studied the painting for what seemed to Fouad for five minutes. When he turned he smiled.

"Yes, you shall have your bomb. Our facility is in the desert, out where a mistake would not be so tragic. I'll have it crated and concealed as best as we can. Where will you fly it from?"

"a.s.suming the bomb is in the desert west of here, we will transport it by truck to Jordan. We should have no trouble crossing the border. We will proceed to the northern city of Irbid. From there we will charter an airfreight craft and fly it away toward the Atlantic Ocean. That's all I should tell you right now. You'll have no trouble pleading that you don't know how this happened, because you really won't know. The plan I sent you is a practical one, but not the exact one that we'll use. Our final plan is much better, slicker and with more chances to succeed. Mr. President. It's an honor and a pleasure doing business with you."

The ex-general smiled and held out his hand. "I hope it will bring pleasure to all of Islam. Now, I realize that your group is usually short on cash. Would you accept a gift from Iraq of fifty thousand U.S. dollars, to help along the project?"

"Mr. President, I'm overwhelmed. Yes, the U.S. dollars will come in handy as we move across the globe. Now, the timetable. We'll need a tractor and an enclosed trailer, to get the package into Jordan and then north. We have contacts there that will cooperate with us with no questions asked. We already have made tentative arrangements with the airfreight company in Irbid."

"I've given orders to provide you with a truck and trailer sufficient to make the trip and to conceal the bomb with bales of raw cotton. It should work well all the way into Jordan. Good luck."

The two men stood, shook hands again.

"Mr. President, just to satisfy my curiosity, how far underground are we?"

"It's a common question. We are a hundred and fifty feet deep into the bedrock of Iraq. No bomb of any type can come anywhere near touching this room."

Fouad smiled. "I'm glad I'm not claustrophobic." He turned and a guard appeared to lead him out of the room and back to the surface. An eager smile showed on his face. Now that it had been decided, he couldn't wait to get the plan into motion. Watch out, America. Al-Qaida is coming for a quick visit.

4.

NAVSPECWARGRUP-ONE.

Coronado, California

Lieutenant Commander Blake Murdock looked at one of his longtime SEALs who sat across from him in his office. He'd just heard Fernandez say he didn't know if he could remain in SEALs.

"Fernandez, I know something of how you're feeling right now. I think nine out of ten men in the military who are in the front lines and have to pull the triggers on rifles, or bomb release b.u.t.tons or machine guns, have had the same feelings you're having. I had a bout with doubts in my second year. You didn't know anything about it. The only one I told was the master chief and Masciareli. Boy, that was a mistake going to the commander. I had been on something like fifteen missions by then and the body count was starting to get to me. What the h.e.l.l was I doing going around the world gunning down these other human beings? So my government said they were bad guys and deserved to die. Why was I their executioner? I pounded it around in my brain for almost two months. Worked through two missions in the process, and came out with one main conclusion for me. My take on it wouldn't mean a thing to you. It's something that every SEAL has to work out for himself. Now, with that as an introduction-tell me how you feel."

Fernandez looked up, the frown still staining his long face.

"It's like you said. I kill people for a living. My little girl this morning asked me what I did. The kids at school told what their dads did for a living, and Linda didn't know. I told her I was in the navy and I went around the world protecting the United States. Then it hit me. What do I do? I shoot people dead."

"Where did that line of thought take you?"

"Down a deep, dark trail. I remembered the dozens, maybe fifty times I've 'made certain' on some of the bodies. Then the hundreds of men I've dispatched with my rifle and sub gun. Just who the h.e.l.l said I was qualified to decide who lives and who dies in this big fat world?"

Murdock watched Fernandez. It had taken six years to hit him this hard. He was in it right up to his mouth and it was rising. He had to do something or Fernandez would drown in his own self-applied misery.

"You don't decide who lives or dies, sailor. That's my job. I tell you what to do and you G.o.dd.a.m.n well better do it. That's why you're a SEAL. That's why I'm a SEAL. Somebody upstairs tells me what to do, and I tell you and the whole f.u.c.king platoon and we do it or we die trying. You know how many men have died in this platoon on my watch?"

"Yes, sir. Fourteen."

"Right, fourteen. Almost a whole d.a.m.n platoon planted in the deep dark earth or buried at sea. Fourteen good men."

"I knew every one of them."

"You did. You and I are not among the departed."

Fernandez took a deep breath. "I guess that's something to be thankful for. But still..." He stopped and looked away. Tears brimmed his eyes, then ran down his cheeks. He slashed at them with his hand. "There ain't no f.u.c.king crying in SEALs, Commander." He shouted the line and they both laughed.

"Every SEAL I've ever known has cried at one time or another. Maybe crying can help. Have you talked to your priest?"

"I'm Catholic, but not a good one. I seldom go to ma.s.s. Almost never go to confession. What do I say? Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned: last week I put my submachine gun to the heads of twelve men and blew their brains out?"

"Easy, Fernandez. Just try to relax. n.o.body is judging you. You're one of the best SEALs in the platoon. Not just the shooting, but the other things. You've held your squad together when it could have shattered and come up with six dead. You've had some ideas and plans that dug the whole platoon out of deep s.h.i.+t more than once. You're a team player, you cover the man's back in front of you, and you expect the man behind you to take care of your a.s.s. You're a SEAL, which is a f.u.c.king lot more than just taking out a few terrs now and then.