The Delta Solution Page 20

  “City called Izhevsk, way out there in the western Urals, about 650 miles east of Moscow. Mikhail Kalashnikov still lives there.”

  “Does he really?”

  “Sure. He’s an old friend of mine. I stay with him when I go there. It’s got a lot of arms history. Mikhail designed his AK-47 assault rifle right there.”

  “Are these modern weapons vastly superior to the old stuff?”

  “In the case of the Russians, yes. They’re always improving, tweaking, redesigning. There’s no comparison. The stuff I ship to Haradheere is the best there is, rifles personally guaranteed by the maker. They also have the most modern mortars and the purest forms of dynamite.”

  “Who runs the place?”

  “Even I don’t know that. But money is never an issue with them. They want the best and only the best—rifles with polished wooden stocks, precision weapons. And they pay in cash. We send stuff in by helicopter. A Chinook, if necessary. Our men land it ten miles north of the town, and they pay in one-hundred-dollar bills.”

  “Does all this make them a particularly dangerous opponent?”

  “Absolutely. I guess Sheikh Sharif found that out the hard way.”

  “I suppose so,” replied Harrison, thoughtfully. “You’d think a hardtrained army of seasoned al-Qaeda warriors, accustomed to attacking an unsuspecting foe, would have little trouble with African tribal guards.”

  “You would. But I’ve been hearing about these Somali pirates. They’re something different. And you’d need to be very careful, if you were to go after them.”

  “I’m beginning to realize that, Najib, a lot better than I did at the start of the day.”

  “Harrison, I’ll tell you something. There’s an ops center in Haradheere. Kind of a garrison in the center of town. I’m told it has concrete walls three-feet thick. The guards are posted on the top ramparts, in all four corners.

  “If it’s attacked from the town, the locals will shoot you down like a dog. If you try to approach it from the north, like al-Qaeda did the other night, they’ll spot you before you get inside the half-mile mark. Even in the pitch dark, the nearest anyone got was about three hundred yards from the north wall. And they’re all dead. You wanna know why?”

  “I sure do.”

  “Because I sold them the most expensive Russian night binoculars on the market. A crate of fifty. And I arranged for special night-sights to be fitted to all their heavy machine guns and some of the light ones. Latest technology.”

  “That’s impressive.”

  “I’ll tell you something even more impressive. They have the brand-new Russian RPG7—a rocket propelled grenade—but it really stands for ruchnoy, meaning handheld, protivo-tankovyy, antitank, granatomyot, grenade launcher. It’s reloadable, weighs 15.4 pounds, and fires a gunpowder-boosted missile at 377 feet per second. Leaves a light grey-blue smoke trail. You can’t miss them.”

  “Do you have time to get out of the way?”

  “You jest, Harrison. When that RPG7 rocket motor kicks in after thirty-three feet, it accelerates to 968 feet per second and sustains flight to 1,640 feet. I’m telling you, it’s the last word in small-rocket technology. It’s got two sets of fins that deploy in flight, big ones to maintain direction, and a smaller front set to make the damn thing rotate.”

  “What’s its full range?”

  “Well, it will travel two-thirds of a mile, but it’s only lethal up to a thousand feet. It has two types of missile, one designed to blow people up, one designed to knock out battlefield tanks, that’s a HEAT missile: high-explosive anti-tank. But my professional code prevents me from telling you how many the Haradheere pirates have.”

  “Bullshit. How many? Or no dessert tonight.”

  “Forty-eight.”

  “Christ!”

  “So there you have it. You want to attack these characters, go for it. But count me out.”

  “I never actually counted you in, fat boy,” said Harrison, laughing.

  Big Najib laughed, sampling another pastry with extra honey dip. “I’m looking forward to dinner,” he confirmed.

  HARRISON DARROW’S next e-mail report was presented to Bob Birmingham at the CIA’s Langley headquarters. He read it with mounting worry—accompanied by visions of American Special Forces being put to the sword by these supersonic tribesmen with their state-of-the-art weaponry and early-warning systems.

  Harrison was not a man to exaggerate, and he had unearthed a lot of information. Nonetheless Bob had never before heard of an al-Qaeda battalion being totally wiped out, even by a Western force. The list of weapons in the Haradheere arsenal was chilling, and once more the CIA chief opened up the line to Admiral Carlow.

  “Look, Andy,” said Bob, “it’s my obvious duty to inform the brotherhood: Bradfield, Lancaster, Andre, and Ramshawe at NSA. Because everyone’s especially jumpy right now about Navy SEALs getting killed. I have to tell you, if they think the odds are heavily stacked against us, they’ll call off the formation of Delta Platoon today.”

  “Are you planning a conference?”

  “It’ll happen. And you have to be there, Andy. And you better bring the Delta CO with you. He may not want to charge the Russian guns because it might be like the friggin’ Light Brigade at Balaclava.”

  ADMIRAL CARLOW, in company with Commander Mack Bedford, touched down at Andrews Air Force Base twenty-four hours later after a five-hour flight from Coronado. The US Marine helicopter awaited them, and they were flown directly to the Pentagon, where they were escorted immediately to the third-floor office of Secretary of Defense Simon Andre.

  General Lancaster was there talking to Admiral Mark Bradfield, and Captain Jimmy Ramshawe was staring at some high satellite shots of the area around the East African town of Haradheere, in which Salat’s heavyweight garrison could only just be picked out.

  “Is that the most desolate-looking place you’ve ever seen?” said Simon Andre.

  “Hell, no,” said Jimmy. “There’s places in Australia that make Haradheere look like Fifth Avenue. About 3,000 miles’ worth, tell you the truth.”

  Bob Birmingham was the last to arrive from the CIA headquarters, eight miles up the parkway. Simon Andre led everyone into his conference room.

  He began the meeting briskly. “Gentlemen, he said, “I think we all know why we are here, and we have all read Bob’s memorandum listing the kind of modern arsenal they have in this pirates’ lair. And we now know what a crushing defeat they inflicted on a small al-Qaeda army.

  “I suppose one’s natural instinct might be to take the darned place off the map. But I regret to say, that’s not possible. There’d be lawyers swarming all over it if we did, claiming the pirates were unarmed, innocent, never been in trouble before, and deserving of damages big enough to pay the national debt.

  “Not to mention that the unspeakable European Union is on the pirates’ side, yammering on about their human rights. A big bomb in the middle of the town is not an option these days. Because it might bankrupt the insurance companies—and us.”

  Everyone nodded in assent, with obvious reluctance

  “Gentlemen,” said Secretary Andre, “we made our plans quite recently. And if I might remind you, it was to wait until the pirates were on board a US ship and then send in a specialist SEAL team to recapture the vessel, knock the hell out of the pirates, and very possibly smash their stronghold in Haradheere.

  “Because that course of action had the overwhelming advantage of catching them in the act, rescuing our citizens, saving lives, and making darned sure nothing else happened in the future. We all know we may have to do it again, and perhaps even again. We also know that that way we must win. Because we’ll demand a US courtroom, produce terrified American witnesses to speak against a crime against the United States, and the European court can shove their human rights in the place where the sun does not shine.”

  Having spent a cloistered, intellectual, and scholarly life, Simon Andre was about four decades late with that particular clic
hé, and no one laughed, which was a fair measure of the serious nature of the meeting.

  The drastic leftward swing of modern justice, leading to madness like letting lethal terrorists out of Guantanamo Bay, had unnerved the US armed forces and the security organizations. At the great, polished mahogany table sat perhaps the most concerned people in America.

  “Since Commander Bedford will lead our troops into action,” said Andre, “perhaps he might outline for us the readiness of the SEALs to move forward and what he now feels should happen in light of this new intelligence.”

  Mack Bedford frowned. “I have to admit,” he said, “the strength of the pirate arsenal is a shock. And while I don’t intend for any of my guys to get in the way of their fire, this illustrates the standard procedure for all SEAL attacks—the element of surprise, massive intimidation, and the advantage of showing up where we have no right to be. That’s what wins out in the end.”

  Mack paused before adding, “Gentlemen, if I’ve got two men standing behind a pirate leader, with both barrels aimed at the back of his skull, it doesn’t much matter if he’s carrying an atom bomb. There’s no chance he’ll have time to let the thing explode. And that applies to every other weapon.

  “We’re not infantry. We don’t stand fast and slug it out—although we would if we had to. Our game is the sudden devastating arrival, specifically designed to frighten and if necessary to kill whoever doesn’t immediately surrender.”

  “Then you would not be advising that we pull back with the formation of Delta Platoon?” asked General Lancaster. “Despite everything we now know of their considerable strength?”

  “Pull back? Hell, no. We haven’t even got started yet.”

  “How about those heavy machine guns?” asked Andre. “The ones Bob’s man says can be converted to antiaircraft, or those handheld Russian missiles that can blow straight through a battlefield tank. Are you in any way, commander, concerned by those?”

  “Negative,” snapped Mack. “The machine guns are big and cumbersome, slow to aim. My guys will blow the brains out of ten pirate gunners before they can find the trigger.”

  This brought a smile to the faces of both Admiral Bradfield and General Lancaster. “Those rockets might be a pain in the ass,” said Zack. “I mean if they got one away as you made your approach. By sea, I mean.”

  “Sir,” said Mack, “if they have a heavy guard on duty, we’ll come in underwater. We are the SEALs. And I don’t recall any operation I’ve ever been on when anyone’s found us before we were good and ready to be found.”

  “Do I not recall a sneak missile attack on four of our tanks along the Euphrates a year ago?” asked the general. “Several of our top men were killed.”

  Mack’s face clouded. “Sir, I was not in command at that stage of the mission,” he said. “But I was there before they fired a second time. And that took them about ten minutes to get the birds away. You have my assurance these pirates will not be given that much leeway.”

  “Nonetheless, a captured ship becomes a fortified garrison,” replied General Lancaster. “Hard to get at without loss of life, which we are all trying to avoid.”

  “I understand, sir,” replied the SEAL commander. “And I do accept that in certain rare circumstances a ship may be too well guarded for any approach. In which case we’ll come at it by air. Two helos. A big one to land the guys. A gunship to provide intense covering fire.”

  “What about those antiaircraft machine guns?” suggested General Lancaster.

  “Sir, if we have to switch to the air, we’ll come at them so fast, so hard, and so unexpected, they’ll never know what hit them.”

  “Hmm,” said the general. “And if that’s successful, do you intend to switch the attack immediately to Haradheere and complete the mission with a destruction of the pirate garrison?”

  “Sir, I don’t just want to kick his sorry ass into the Indian Ocean. I want the heel of my boot rammed across his throat. Just so he understands who he’s fucking with.”

  The chairman of the Joint Chiefs leaned back and smiled. Then he slowly clapped, until all of the others joined in. “I’ve waited a while to hear some real fighting talk on this subject,” said General Lancaster. “Sounded good, commander. Sounded real good.”

  “Mack,” said Mark Bradfield, “what do you see as the single biggest problem with operations like these?”

  “Distance, sir, always distance. It seems there is a pattern emerging. Pirates are going for targets farther and farther away from shore. Three years ago, they seemed restricted, never going near a foreign ship outside national waters, maybe a dozen miles off the coast.

  “And ships were deliberately staying clear of all inshore waters. At that point, there were two things that could have happened: One, the pirates said, ‘We can’t operate out there, it’s too far, and we’ll have to find a new way to make a living.’ Or two, they said, ‘We’ll have to find a way to operate out in deep water.’

  “They took the second option. Which is why the last three significant pirate hits, the Greek tanker, the Niagara Falls, and the Queen Beatrix were all attacked 800 to 1,000 miles off the coast of Africa. And a good, long way from Diego Garcia.”

  “I guess they used the ransom cash to improve their boats,” said Admiral Carlow. “And I do think we need to examine the possibility of leaks. Someone must be tipping them off about certain ships. Because these villains keep showing up in the middle of absolutely nowhere.”

  “If you have enough bread, you can buy anything,” said Jimmy Ramshawe. “And these guys are banking millions of dollars at a time. Everyone pays up because it’s a hundred times quicker and cheaper than fighting and arguing. And it seems to me that the most efficient pirate asset is some $75,000-a-year shipping clerk, either here or in Rotterdam or one of the other tanker ports.”

  “I’d have to agree,” interjected Mack Bedford. “Which brings us right back to where we were yesterday, and last week, and last month. We need to strike at them, take out the ringleaders, knock down their HQ, take their cash, and humiliate them.

  “But most of all, we need to frighten them, and others like them. I know there’s a theory about reasoning and doing deals, but sometimes you need a big stick—that’s what will scare the living daylights out of them and get them to stop what they’re doing, because it’s just not worth it.”

  “And you’re confident that can be done?” asked General Lancaster.

  “Certainly, sir,” replied Mack. “We can do it. But as I said, our biggest problem is distance. We need to come in and attack as soon as possible. And our main SEAL bases in the area are in Bahrain and Diego Garcia. And they’re 3,000 miles apart. The pirates tend to strike somewhere in the middle of that line. And whether we come in by air or by sea, the operation requires a warship. That’s our problem.”

  General Lancaster pondered the subject and then said quietly, “Mack, have you forgotten about Djibouti?”

  “No, sir. But that place is always kinda secret. In my game, classified is classified. We don’t even mention where we’re going to our wives. Djibouti? Well, that’s kinda like Casablanca in World War II. We know it’s there, and we understand that God knows what happens there. But we don’t say it.”

  General Lancaster chuckled. “Gentlemen, it is inconceivable to me that Delta Platoon will work out of any other base. We have a major presence in Djibouti, right there where the Red Sea meets the Gulf of Aden. It’s home to our Combined Joint Task Force—Horn of Africa Command.”

  “According to my records,” said Simon Andre, punching the keys of his laptop, “there are 2,000 US troops there, and the area is under the command of the United States Navy—used to be the Middle East Command Post, Second Marine Division. Now it’s the US Naval Expeditionary Base.”

  “That’s the place,” replied General Lancaster. “And, somewhat quietly for a change, we seem to have the place sorted out. It now has the only deepwater seaport in the area and an international airport. We share that wit
h civilian airlines, and our camp’s right there, close to the runways. And they’re big enough to land a Boeing 747. It’s a big place now, five hundred acres.”

  “Can you get a decent sized warship in there?” asked Captain Ramshawe.

  “Hell, yes,” said Mark Bradfield. “When we first took over, we ran it off Mount Whitney, that command ship down in Norfolk. She weighs 20,000 tons full-load, and she’s more than six hundred feet long, bigger than a destroyer. We can get into Djibouti with damn near anything.”

  “Where did we get the place?” asked Jimmy.

  “From the French and the Djibouti government,” said Simon Andre. “Right after 9/11, President Bush wanted a secret ops center in the Middle East, and he pulled off a deal with the French military to share their old Foreign Legion base, Camp Lemonier.”

  “Did the French own the country before?” asked Captain Ramshawe.

  “Oh, sure,” said Andre. “It used to be French Somaliland. Anyway, for all intents and purposes it’s American now. And it’s a strategic masterpiece, stands right between Eritrea to the north, Ethiopia to the west, and Somalia to the southeast. Right across the water is Yemen. And we have very good relations with the Djibouti government. Can’t beat that.”

  “Can’t beat that,” agreed General Lancaster. “Mack, will that make life any easier for you?”

  “Certainly. If we’re trying to get out to a ship from Bahrain, well, this would knock off more than 1,000 miles from the journey, minimum. That’s important time. Probably critical.”

  Andre stared down at his map. “Closer to 1,200, Mack.”

  “That’s even more important,” replied the SEAL commander. “The trick is to be trained and ready to go—at a minute’s notice. And I’m sure we can achieve that. Just need someone to start the engines and get us moving.”

  “I can arrange standard procedures in the seaport,” said CNO Bradfield. “We want the entire SEAL inventory ready to load and leave. Boats and equipment. Pack down and gone. Also I think we’ll keep a couple of destroyers offshore. The goddamned pirates are staging major hits every month or so. We just need to regard the whole area as a war zone and act accordingly.”