

The Cobra Identity

By

Frank Perry, author

Hampton Falls, New Hampshire

Books.by.frank@gmail.com

Synopsis

A Headquarters-based soldier volunteers for a dangerous field mission, risking his life, without consulting his fiancée. They're deeply in love, but his thoughtlessness causes her to break their engagement. He must choose: his career or leave the Army for any chance of recovering their relationship. She'll always love him but understands that he won't really change, despite his promises. She won't go through the emotional stress again of nearly losing him on some foreign adventure. It's a painful decision for the career-minded military man. Should he leave the Army for a passive civilian job, or lose her forever? A national terror crisis delays the decision and could further complicate options for the young couple.

Copyright © 2016 by Frank Perry

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, email to: books.by.frank@gmail.com.

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Acknowledgements

The author would like to acknowledge the contributions made to this book by: Sandy Blair, my valued author friend and advisor, Dave Klugh, Lt. CDR, USN (Ret.), and LTC Ken Starr, USA (Ret.) for their subject matter expertise. Beverly Heinle provided invaluable proofreading "red marks." My lovely wife Janet Perry tolerantly read the early drafts, preventing too much embarrassment. The cover theme and designed was by my talented son, Brendan Perry, Chicago Illinois

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, world organizations, government agencies, regulations, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The author professes no medical training related to the subject matter.

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Other books by Frank:

  * Recall to Arms

  * The Cobra Identity

  * Reign of Terror

  * Letters From the Grave

  * Kingfish

  * Sibley's Secret

  * The Dolos Conspiracy

### Prologue

An Air Force C20 transport airplane was climbing through ten thousand feet after takeoff from Rahmstein Airbase, Germany. The rhythmic drone of the twin turbofan engines at full takeoff power sedated the Army Major collapsed in a wide seat. His eyes burned and he had a massive headache from days of sleep deprivation and fatigue after evading capture in Iran with his small elite squad of Rangers. His back ached from a gunshot wound received months earlier during a prior mission alone to Iran. Although exhausted, his mind wouldn't relax. Instead of enjoying the reprieve, he focused ahead on the confrontation he hoped wouldn't greet him at Andrews AFB, Maryland, but he knew otherwise.

He chose to lead the mission, ignoring his fiancé's feelings. It was a choice he should never have had to make. He was already a veteran of too many operations. Less than two years earlier, he had resigned from the Army in a depressed state, but was called back to active duty a short time later to help defeat a nuclear weapon attack on Chicago. While on that assignment, he started a relationship with a woman he now loved beyond belief. Following her to Washington, DC, he had accepted a desk job with the National Guard Bureau, re-establishing his active commission. As the Bureau's Deputy Director for Counter Terrorism, he was in a planning and policy role. When this mission was approved, he volunteered to lead it without consulting her. He had been selfish, realizing it too late to back away.

He tried to force his body to rest, which led to dreams of her, the scent of her silky brown hair, her skin, her brains and the sparkle of her green eyes. Would she even meet him at Andrews? Would the passion that ignited months earlier still be there? Oh, God. No national gratitude, military awards or esteem could balance the loss that he feared ahead.

### Morzh

The freighter was on SSW course twenty miles north of the Port of Miami. She was a Russian vessel about three hundred eighty feet long with a sixteen foot draft. Old and rusty, she would groan and moan if asked to do twelve knots with a single propeller (screw). Captain Yuri Ivanov often prayed that the ship would hold together in rough seas.

On the bridge at midnight, a gentle breeze caused by the ship plunging against choppy seas gave little relief from the searing heat. The conditions were terrible for the maneuver ahead, but such things were under divine control. They were committed to delivering the cargo at this point. Ivanov preferred to stand the night watch himself rather than delegate bridge duties to one of his mates. The peace and quiet allowed him to reflect on his life as it might have been. At the height of the cold war, he was a Commander in the Soviet fleet, Captain of his own frigate, respected across the world's oceans. Much of the crew was comprised of former Soviet seamen, accustomed to military discipline and trained for battle at sea. Like the Captain, they all felt betrayed by their government.

With the fall of the USSR, Ivanov had been adrift like most men in their military. Pay was meager and even senior officers were impoverished. Worse, his family was no longer respected in their community, and he did not have the means to support their lifestyle. He and his wife had been in love since childhood and involved deeply in the lives of their two daughters. Without the means to support them, his wife and children were forced to live away with relatives, often in deplorable conditions. He wasn't part of their lives, forced into menial labor on the docks. With years of separation, his wife broke off communication and moved somewhere unknown to him.

After years of working the ports, Ivanov got a third mate appointment with a freighter line. The ships were all derelicts, embarrassments in all ports of call, but after more years as an oceanic nomad, he had reestablished his command in the merchant fleet. It wasn't on a luxury liner, but the certificate he now possessed was the same, regardless of the ugly ship he commanded. This was his second transatlantic voyage to America. If successful, the money for transporting the illicit cargo would give him the means to recover his lifestyle and maybe regain his family. Damn the ocean tonight!

The ship was traveling under the stars at only six knots, which was fast enough to avoid undue attention from the Coast Guard, yet slow enough to allow the cargo to be dropped overboard. The ship's name was 'Morzh' (walrus) for her wide beam and slow hull design. She sailed under Liberian colors. Her advantage was fuel efficiency, which allowed her to travel four thousand miles without refueling. On a typical cruise, she could almost make a round trip back to homeport. This wasn't a typical cruise.

Ivanov stood on the open bridge savoring a gust blowing from the mainland. It carried the smell of land. Although not cool, the wind helped evaporate the droplets on his skin, which made him feel refreshed. He was sweating from the summer heat, but also because of the maneuver ahead. For the crewmen below in the ship's main cargo hold, the night air was stifling with the hatch covers closed. It was dangerous to have any light emitting.

Men in the hold had been preparing an odd-looking submersible sled with rigging to lower it into the sea while still underway. It was a dangerous task for a well-trained crew, but these men had never been able to practice. They had been working for over an hour when the bridge phone sounded. The Captain lifted the receiver and spoke a few words in Russian then yelled below to the first mate on deck, ordering him to begin raising the cargo. After issuing orders on deck, the crane operator took up the slack in the cable attached to the hatch handle to lift the large metal door, exposing the gaping cavern in the belly of the ship. The men below were standing in darkness. As the hatch opened, refreshing air rushed inside and starlight was enough for them to work.

The deck crew disconnected the hatch cover and swung the boom over the hold. The sled was light for its size. The entire load had the weight and size of an SUV, consisting of welded aluminum trusses above a hull section with a boat-shaped bow. It had a flat bottom with twelve inches of air trapped inside. This airspace provided buoyancy for sixteen containers lashed to it, plus the special buoy tethered on top of the load. Men worked by feel, attaching four eyebolts at the corners of the sled to cables leading upward to a single steel ring above the sled. When the cable hook was lowered, cargo handlers attached the ring and signaled for slack to be removed from the line. Once taut, the load appeared to be balanced, so the signal was given to raise the cargo.

On the bridge, next to the Captain, a strange passenger stood watching and worrying, even more nervous than the Captain. He was given this mission by his supreme leader with financing from contributions throughout the Muslim world. He would be disgraced, or worse, if it failed. He was ugly, but had so much facial hair that it was hard to discern his features. At least he wasn't wearing the white skull cap, taqiyah, which infuriated the crew. The only thing that could be seen by anyone who cared to look was teeth and eyes. The eyes! They had an insanely piercing quality that seldom held a steady gaze more than a fraction of a second. He had never spoken to the crew, and they preferred it that way.

As the sled rose, the Captain barked at the helmsman to maintain a straight course and not to be distracted. Long swells caused the ship to rise and fall, while spray blew across the deck. Conditions were not good, but they had to proceed. Ivanov wanted the Muslim off the deck, and off the ship. In the Navy, it was never permissible to be on the bridge without permission of the Officer of the Deck. Majiid had not asked permission to be on the bridge. Ivanov found him repulsive and knew the feeling was mutual. If Majiid were not paying a small fortune for this delivery, the crew would have thrown the arrogant bastard overboard. It would have been easy, just another "man overboard" in international waters.

Dropping the sled overboard in the rough sea while underway at night required skill and care by the crew, and any mistake could be disastrous. Majiid paced behind the Captain, further annoying him. As the cargo rose slowly, Ivanov moved to the navigation table inside the closed bridge to double-check their location. They needed to be positioned over the Bahamian shoals in less than twenty five fathoms of water. The process required more precision than this crew, or this ship, was able to deliver. Nevertheless, it was their job tonight.

The shoals were located inside the 'contiguous zone' of U.S. waters, and the ship could be subject to search under certain conditions. In 1999 President Clinton extended the zone from 12 to 24 miles. The U.S. 'territorial sea' extends from the coastline out to twelve miles, which has more onerous laws and search rules, so they had to drop the load outside this boundary. Once the sled was over the side, but still attached, they were in greatest peril. The Captain ordered the helmsman to turn ten degrees to port, heading directly into the swells.

The crane operator raised the sled above the deck and side rails, while two crewmen grabbed ropes hanging from either end to keep it oriented in the direction of the ship. Morzh rose and fell on the swells. Footing was dangerous and there were no lights on deck. As the sled passed over the side rail, the rope handlers tried to keep it pointed ahead. Over the side, it should have been about fifteen feet down to the turbulent black wake below, but this night the distance varied from twelve to eighteen feet between waves.

All the crewmen were receiving extra pay and risking their lives. There had been no way to practice the cargo drop at sea, crossing in rough conditions. They had only one chance to succeed. As the sled started down, a daring young seaman had volunteered to ride on top to disconnect the cable. He would also pull the flood control cable tethered to the lifting ring. The older men knew how dangerous this was and tried to invent a remote way to disconnect, but the cavalier youth thought it would be exhilarating. The Captain yelled from the bridge in Russian, "Keep those lines taut, do not allow it to broach! Double up, double up!" Some of the crew looked up at the bridge, but sea, wind and winch noise obscured the orders.

As the sled began lowering overboard, the seaman perched on the rail and jumped on top. As it neared the waterline, waves pummeled the bottom of the sled, causing it to jerk violently. As it lowered further, the payload oscillated as the current took hold of the sled. Everyone was shouting in the confusion. The sled slammed into the ship enraging Majiid. The Captain was more concerned about his crew than damaging the payload. The crane creaked under the stain and the sled jerked rearward stretching the cable. The sled dove, leaving the rear elevated and swinging wildly. Water was breaking over the front and the crane boom could break at any moment. As the sled porpoised up and down, the young sailor grasped the cable hook with all his might, but could not release it from the ring under extreme tension. He was panicking. On deck, another boy was screaming while crewmen restrained him from jumping over to help. In a desperate attempt to slacken the cable, the operator released the winch brake and it began spooling out, but the effect was momentary. The old mechanism was too rusted and a black wave engulfed the sled. The seaman gave one last heroic tug on the cable and was able to release it, but lost his grip on the wet hook, which was his only way back aboard. Even in darkness, the men saw the horror on his face and heard his last scream. For a moment, it looked like he would float past the stern of the ship, but as the current grabbed the sled, it slammed against the ship twice and tipped violently. The youth fought to keep hold, but lost his balance and flailed with one hand while torrents grabbed at him. Gasping in the froth, his grip failed and he slipped into the dark abyss beside the hull. The sled remained on the surface while flooding, but the boy was sucked into the ship's propeller. His crewmates knew there would be no need for a rescue attempt. Behind the ship, the ballast tanks flooded and the sled sank.

Men on deck were screaming and shouting at the bridge, and restraining the other young seaman. The Captain and crew were all Russian, so strife was familiar to them, but it was overwhelming losing the young man in such a horrible way. Standing on the bridge observing the sled release, Majiid turned away and went below, satisfied that his prize was okay.

### Port of Miami

Before entering the port of Miami in the morning, a pilot boat came out to meet Morzh with the Customs inspector and Coast Guard. The ship had circled until dawn and the slack tide before approaching the port. As the boat came alongside the ship, Ivanov signaled for the engine to stop, and a ladder was lowered for the officials to come aboard.

As the officers came on deck, Ivanov met them saying in passable English, "Welcome to ship Morzh. I am Captain Yuri Ivanov." He welcomed them and led them to the bridge where he presented ship's papers. The manifest showed two holds full and one empty. The purpose of the stop in Miami was to load processed sugar for export to Africa. The passenger manifest showed no passengers and twelve crewmen.

Everything seemed to be in order and the pilot assumed joint command of the ship for docking at the commercial terminal, where immigration officers would come aboard to check passports. Under Ivanov's instruction, the helmsman followed commands from the pilot entering the port. As the ship moved forward slowly, the Captain informed the trio of officials on the bridge that one of their crew fell overboard around midnight and they had circled all night looking for him without luck. They had radioed his loss to the Miami Port Authority, but they had not seen any aircraft or ships respond to help find the man. Otherwise, this was a routine port stop.

### The Search

When the ship docked, four U.S. officers came aboard. Two from Immigration were there to check personnel, and the others searched the ship. The crew was called to the main deck for document review and entry recording. Other than the Captain, none of the crew admitted understanding English, and the immigration officers did not speak Russian. Once processed, they were granted temporary visit permits that ended when the ship left port. The process, including the search, lasted one hour. The Captain then granted the crewmen two days of evening liberty ashore with a rotating skeleton crew staying aboard at all times to watch for fires and deal with emergencies. Generally, three quarters of the crew were able to be off the ship each night in port. Abd al-Majiid, under false identity, was the first to depart without a word to anyone. He would always hate Russians for invading Afghanistan and murdering hundreds of thousands of innocent Muslims, often destroying entire villages without regard to anyone living there. In his mind, they were infidels and should all die!

### Deep Water Trawler

The large fishing trawler could drag a fifteen ton net along the seabed, up to three thousand feet below the surface. Destiny was registered out of Port Charlotte on the gulf coast of Florida near Fort Myers, eighty miles below Tampa Bay. The port is one of the most prolific commercial fishing locations on the gulf. Destiny usually fished the deep channels off the north coast of South America and over to the east coast of Central America. On occasion, it would journey into the Atlantic as far north as Georgia. As a U.S. ship, with current Coast Guard inspections and a clear history, she could fish in legal fishing grounds without drawing any scrutiny or inspections. With nets deployed, the ship could not stop without risking tangling in the propellers.

This week it had been trawling down the east coast of the southern United States, with Captain Ned Thomas in command. Thomas was a lifelong fisherman from a fishing family. He was accustomed to long lonely times at sea. Technically, he had been married for almost twenty years, but the long separations and unreliable income had strained the relationship with his wife most of that time. He was undergoing a difficult divorce and owed his wife half the value of his business, which was, essentially, his boat, with an appraised value over two million dollars. In good seasons, he could clear between $200,000 and $300,000 after expenses, but this season was poor and compounded by the divorce. Tonight, cruising without nets deployed was boring and sitting on the bridge alone meant hours of contemplation. He still loved this wife, but was never able to express it adequately. She had often accused him of having an affair with his boat. It was true that he spent most of his time with it, but that was the life of a commercial fisherman. They never had children, which he imagined made their relationship more difficult. Maybe the sea was his mistress. Their difficulties had started almost from the beginning of their marriage, but stayed just below the surface most of the time. In the past three years, with rising costs and poor fishing, the strains had become too much, so they barely spoke any more. He could imagine life without her ... he had his ship, but it wasn't the life he wanted. He knew she had progressed beyond the point of recovery and reconciliation was no longer an option. He just needed to save his boat from auction.

This coming night, passing below Miami, he would snag the biggest fish of his life and be able to pay off his wife. He was a patriotic American, and felt he could forgive himself for one transgression. His country would have to absorb a little more dope through Florida. That was enough rationalization for him.

Around four o'clock in the afternoon, he was opposite Port Canaveral and could see the gambling casinos floating three miles offshore. The term "Casino" was a term for old cruise ships that, twice daily, spend five hours steering in circles at three knots outside the state's enforcement zone. Other than that, the radar showed a few contacts, but the area over Bahamian shoals was clear. Ned made a routine radio contact with the Coast Guard to give status and position as required each time they entered a new coastal district. He was cruising toward specific coordinates about five hours ahead, southeast of the Port of Miami. The sea was calm and they were making good time against the "Florida Current." The current was the beginning of the Gulf Stream System. It stretches from the Florida Straits up to Cape Hatteras running north at about four knots. The Spanish explorer Ponce de Leon first reported the current when he came to the new world. Destiny was making about fourteen knots forward speed heading due south. The crew was lounging below or sleeping. Work would begin after dark.

Late that night, Destiny was approaching the pickup point. The sea conditions had risen to be moderately choppy with wind blowing about ten to fifteen knots. The working conditions were not ideal, but tolerable. Ned had gotten a few hours' sleep, trusting the helm to his first mate, Jim Cooper who was an expert navigator. Nearing the pickup point, with Jim at the helm, Ned worked the navigation equipment and sonar. Fishing boats used sonar to plot the sea floor, locating the troughs where fish congregate. Destiny had a late model Wesmar HD800 system with frequency ranges from 160Hz to 27 kHz. The 110 kHz channel was used the most, whereas 27 kHz was almost never used in Florida waters. Ned instructed Jim to reduce speed to four knots, offsetting the current and minimizing engine noise. He set the selector dial to 27 and pressed three consecutive underwater sound bursts. Then they waited.

Loitering in one location would raise suspicion because Coast Guard radars were programmed to signal alarms when ships stopped moving off the coast. The algorithms had tolerance for short durations when boats stopped to bring fish aboard, but longer periods could indicate a problem or illegal activity.

The buoy they were expecting to rise to the surface was a converted Russian Navy "ascending mine" that was designed to be anchored on the ocean floor until it detected a specific acoustic signature. When the sound pattern was detected, the mine was designed to cut its tether and attack a ship or submarine using a water jet motor guided by a homing receiver. Iranian engineers had removed the motor and explosive warhead, using the airspace for compressed air bottles. As the modified buoy released from the sled, airbags inflated and a steel line unrolled as it floated to the surface.

It was calculated to take about two minutes for the buoy to reach the surface. Ned instructed Jim to circle the ship in a wide arc at six knots while they waited, simulating a net recovery profile. Both men were nervous and sweating profusely. They were now committing a major felony that could send them to prison for a long time and ruin the rest of their lives. Words were few and delivered with an edge that could erupt in an argument at any moment. The buoy took longer to locate than expected. In darkness, radar was used to find it before it could be seen. The crew was called to the fishing deck to "hook" the buoy and bring it aboard. With the chop and wind, maneuvering it aboard took several minutes. Ned began yelling orders, which the crew ignored under the heightened anxiety everyone felt.

Once the cable was detached from the buoy and secured to the winch, the ship turned southward at four knots to neutralize the current, while pulling the sled toward the surface. Once they had recovered about one hundred feet of cable, Ted ordered them ahead at eight knots, while pulling the sled closer to the surface. Returning to the bridge, he plotted a course around the Florida Keys, northward to Charlotte Harbor. His plan was to remain twenty-five miles from the coast at all times and approach their homeport at night. With no Coast Guard response, they appeared to be safe.

### Army Intelligence

Rachael Aston was intelligent, young, beautiful and respected in her new role as the Director of Operations and Plans (DAMI-OP), Army Intelligence, at the Pentagon. Her boss was the Deputy Chief of Staff (DCS), Lt. General John Simmons (code G-2). She received her appointment based on a recommendation from the President after helping to stop a terrorist's plot to explode nuclear bombs in Chicago a year earlier. She had demonstrated skill in coordinating with other federal agencies, particularly the FBI. She was also nearly killed when a bomb exploded in the city, taking several months to recover. It was the kind of real-world experience that most senior defense staff never gained, yet she was a seasoned veteran, and not quite thirty years old.

As a senior civilian executive in the department, her role was to represent the Army and the Deputy Chief of Staff in the development and coordination of policy in the areas of intelligence gathering, personnel training, weather, imagery, and geospatial intelligence. She coordinated information gathering operations, aerial reconnaissance and surveillance, and cross-discipline intelligence issues. Most significantly, she oversaw the Army's participation with other U.S. and foreign Intelligence agencies.

She was always in her office early, even earlier than most of the Flag Officers. Her apartment in Georgetown was close to the University, where she had earned her JD. She loved Georgetown and rode the Metro blue line to work each morning. Her routine was to stop by the underground food court for green tea and a bagel, walk up the long slanted corridors to level three, and then outward to the "D" ring where the G2 offices were located. Security procedures entering the intelligence directorate were rigorous, so it took about fifteen minutes from the train stop.

Her first priority each day was to prepare the intelligence report for the Secretary of Defense (SecDef) and the Army Chief of Staff and his various deputies. Sitting at her desk, she pushed the power button on her computer, which took more than two minutes to boot up given the security firewalls. Before she checked the COP (common operating picture) intelligence web page, she looked at her email. There was one unusual correspondence.

The "Direction du Renseignement Militaire (DRM)" was the Directorate of Military Intelligence for the French Army, an allied intelligence-sharing organization. DRM communiqués were rare. The text of the message included "...Russian merchant ship Morzh bound from Monrovia to Miami carrying unknown quantity of SA-18 shoulder-launched surface to air missiles. Reliability of information is high."

The message contained office contact information in Paris. Rachael made this item the top entry in her intelligence report, along with the normal weather and routine information, sending it by email to her standard distribution. She then called LTC Jean Francois Picard in Paris directly, without using the military liaison office responsible for French relations. Colonel Picard was polite and courteous. He said the information was HUMINT (human intelligence) in nature, a spy on the ground, and that it had some Algerian content, although he would not divulge any more. It was normal protocol within the intelligence community not to speculate on unverified facts. In most cases, the actual data cannot be correlated readily, so the originating intelligence agency must qualify the data using standard phraseology. "Reliability high" is almost certainly valid.

### Miami FBI

The Miami FBI field office was located at 16320 Northwest 2nd Avenue, North Miami Beach, with four satellite offices in the South East Florida region. The Special Agent in Charge (SAC) of the office was Sandra Ryan. Mark Brennan was an Assistant SAC in charge of the Organized Crime Task Force and a member of the Terrorist Task Force. Mark had been in the FBI since graduating from Virginia Tech six years earlier. He was raised in Northern Virginia by career civil service parents. He had been a competitive swimmer throughout his youth and college, and still competed at the "masters" level. His brown hair was perpetually blond from an active outdoor life style. He was athletically built and handsome, but had not formed any romantic ties due to work schedule and his professional association, which lacked opportunities to meet people in his circumstance. He was also a dedicated law enforcement officer who took his job seriously and, as a result, had been promoted and transferred frequently. He had been in Miami only six months.

Rachael Aston called the Miami office directly, bypassing the Army Liaison Officer with the FBI Washington headquarters. She used her youth and charm whenever needed for forgiveness working outside the "system," and it helped that she had Presidential endorsement following her role in Chicago.

The call was forwarded to Brennan, who answered, "Hello, this is Special Agent Brennan, how can I help you?"

"Agent Brennan, I'm Rachael Aston with Army Intelligence at the Pentagon."

"Yes, Rachael. Call me Mark. What can I help you with?"

"Okay Mark. We've received reliable information that shoulder-launched missiles are coming to Miami on a cargo ship."

"Where did you hear this?"

"It's from an allied military intelligence office."

"Do you know the ship's name and arrival information?"

"I only know the name, Morzh. Its Russian and can also claim Liberian registry."

"Can you hold? I want to get my computer turned on to check the Port Authority calendar. It'll show scheduled arrivals. It should be running any minute."

She could hear him typing on his keyboard. Then she heard a quiet, "Holy shit...Ms. Ah...Rachael, the ship docked early this morning!"

"Look Mark, this information is valid."

"Okay, understand. Listen, I'm going to alert ICE and get a federal court order to search the ship with the Dade County Sheriff. I can do this fast, but I need your help."

"Like what?"

"Give me your full name again and your position in the Army."

### Search Warrant

Aboard Morzh, Captain Ivanov was on the foredeck working with the crewmen preparing to on-load sugar in large gunnysacks stacked on pallets that had arrived dockside. He was distracted elsewhere when a procession of Government cars and Port Police parked near the gangplank. The first time he saw the line of people was when they were coming aboard. His pulse quickened and the sweat increased more than caused by the Florida weather. Several armed men and women in suits and uniforms came aboard with distressing eagerness. The lead man in a business suit approached and asked for the Captain.

"I am Captain, Yuri Ivanov."

"Captain Ivanov, I'm Special Agent Brennan of the U.S. Federal Bureau of Investigation, FBI, (showing his identification), and this is a Federal Search Warrant. Do you know what this document means?"

"No, I do not know."

"It means that the people with me are going to search your ship for illegal goods."

Ivanov responded, "This ship is under Russian and Liberian registry. Under these country's laws we sail."

"If you choose to call an attorney, you have that right. But, you are now under U.S. law and must obey our instructions."

"I wish to talk to Russian embassy."

"You may do so, and I have the phone number here on the warrant for that purpose." The agent showed him the number. "In the meantime, we'll commence the search. This process also involves your crew, so no one can leave."

### Hasan Abd al-Majiid

Hasan Abd al-Majiid had grown up in Iran as a privileged child. His parents had been in the government during the Shah's reign during the 1970's and received part of their education abroad in the UK and the States. His progressive parents often spoke English at home to give Hasan and his siblings some advantage, expecting the westernization of the country to continue. He was only twelve years old when the Shah was overthrown. This was the end of his family life. His parents were executed under the oppressive Islamic system that followed. Hasan was sent as an orphan to special schools for un-attached children and immersed in the dogma of radical Islamic fundamentals. He was ideally suited for the uprising in terrorism that escalated over the following decades. He was one of Iran's most experienced operatives.

After leaving the ship, Majiid had walked the length of the Miami Commercial Port Terminal on Dodge Island. It took only a couple minutes to reach Biscayne Blvd. where he made a phone call from a payphone. His driver was drinking tea at the Bayside Market Place next door and brought the car around front quickly. They then drove north to McArthur Causeway, merging onto I-95 north. The driver said, "Hasan, I am grateful that you have journeyed to us unharmed. It is my privilege to help you any way that I can."

The driver was a U.S. naturalized citizen from Lebanon and had a successful home contracting business. His family enjoyed prosperity and freedom in the United States. He avoided inquiring about Majiid's purpose.

Majiid said, "Yes my friend, we are truly blessed. Soon we will have a great victory against these infidels. Turn onto highway number seventy-five when we get there."

It took about twenty-five minutes to reach I-75, heading west through the Everglades along "Alligator Alley." It took three hours to cross the swamp, where I-75 turned north along the west coast. In one more hour, they would be at Ft. Myers. Majiid had not told the driver about his mission, deciding to let him live and return to his home in Miami.

### Search of Morzh

After two hours aboard Morzh, no missiles were found. When performing routine checks of the crew, one young man was evasive and nervous and difficult to question around the others. As the interrogation progressed, the man collapsed and started sobbing about his brother being lost at sea under cruel circumstances. After a full hour of discussion, the story was starting to make sense. He was questioned on the dock and inside one of the cars with air conditioning, out of earshot of the Captain and crew. His story was believable and frightening. He was an emotional wreck and the law enforcement team was inclined to believe him. Asked if he wanted protection in trade for testimony, the man, who was really just a boy, said "yes" emphatically. He was embittered by the careless and callous way his brother had perished.

After talking to the man, Brennan re-boarded the ship and confronted Ivanov, who refused to talk until someone from the embassy advised him. At that point, the Port Authority impounded the ship and the Captain was arrested. The rest of the crew was placed in custody of the Immigration authorities, except for the young sailor with the FBI. The government team drove back to the Federal Building with the young man, Aleksei Kravchenko, who was despondent, partly from betraying his shipmates, but more from the memory of his brother dying the way he did.

The FBI offices were on the second floor where the agents took Aleksei to a small conference room. Someone brought him a Coke, which he accepted with gratitude. Mark left him with his assistant, Agent Jeff Janiak (JJ) who was instructed to record everything he heard about the death of his brother and the package dropped into the sea. "See if you can get anything that would help locate the drop point." Aleksei was conversant enough in English to speak to the agents without an interpreter.

After grabbing a cold turkey sandwich and coke from the canteen on the first floor, Brennan returned to his cubicle before calling Rachael Aston. He was starving. Gulping everything down in five minutes, he punched in her phone number.

"This is Rachael Aston." He was impressed that she answered her own phone.

"Ah, Ms. Aston, this is Mark Brennan, FBI Miami."

"Yes Mark Did you find anything?"

"I think we may have. The Morzh was clean. We inspected her from stem to stern. There was nothing. But, we got some information from one of the sailors. We have the Captain in custody."

"What do you know?"

Mark told her about the information from the sailor, hopeful that JJ would be able to get more facts to piece together.

Rachael wanted to get closer to the action, "I'm going to run this up the flagpole in Washington, then I'll be on a flight to Miami first thing."

"Let me know your flight plans, so I can pick you up."

"Okay, thanks."

"Will do. See you later."

Rachael typed out the facts of the "situation" and sent it to all subscribers on the National SecureNet System, the classified network service used by all intelligence agencies. Then she called the Pentagon travel office and gave them a "Priority Two" travel itinerary. This allowed the office to search both commercial travel options and military transports. She rushed to the metro to go home and pack. Before she reached Georgetown, the travel office had her booked on a military flight to Homestead Joint Air Reserve Base (JARB) leaving Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland, in two hours. She then called Brennan.

At six that evening, Agent Brennan was parked at the Air Force Reserve dispatch terminal as the C-21, military version of a Lear 35A business jet, stopped about one hundred feet away. As the engines spooled down, the door opened and people began filing off. Most were in uniform. Rachael was the fourth person to exit and began walking toward the terminal as Mark came out to meet her. It was rare to see a woman dressed in a business suit in South Florida, and she was not the vision of a Pentagon Director in his mind. She was strikingly beautiful, almost six feet tall, with an athletic build, long flowing brown hair and a dignified cadence in her walk. She was both unpretentious in her mannerisms, yet unavoidably noticeable in any group of people.

From the time she was a little girl, Rachael Aston stood out in a crowd. She was five feet eleven inches tall in her early teens. She was introverted, and did not mingle much with other girls. With limited friendships, her passions revolved around riding her horse and playing the piano. Attending prep school in Connecticut, she studied hard and excelled in all subjects. She did not date anyone seriously. Her father was a partner in a New York City law practice, which influenced her career choice. When she graduated at the top of her class in high school, she had her pick of colleges, choosing Boston College. She enjoyed living away from her parents, and the city provided the intellectual stimulation to begin asserting herself. It was okay to display her intellect; she enjoyed opportunities to debate issues with students around the city. With more than 300,000 university students in close proximity, her linguistic skills were tested constantly. She loved it and developed a different persona. Her parents were delighted with her transformation. She also "blossomed" as an engaging beauty.

Brennan could hardly speak. "Rachael?" She nodded. "Hi. I'm Mark Brennan." They shook hands.

"Did you bring any luggage?"

It took a minute for the ground crew to open the baggage compartment and set the bags on the tarmac. Minutes later, they were heading off the base for the forty mile drive north to the FBI office. Rachael had not eaten since her morning bagel and was famished, so they stopped en route at Applebee's for a quick dinner. They reached the office after eight o'clock. Mark explained that he had made requests to the Coast Guard and the Port Authority regarding radar tracks recorded from the night before, and wanted to check to see if there was an answer yet. In the office, he introduced her to JJ who had continued to work with the Russian sailor to get a better idea of the time when the cargo sank.

Both Aleksei and his dead brother, Valeriy, had been sleeping until they were awakened at midnight. It had been about an hour later when Aleksei watched his brother die. Since the ship was effectively motionless above the seafloor in the offsetting current, the radar track would be fairly precise in pinpointing the location of the drop. He thought the cargo was drugs and blamed the Captain for his brother's death. He also recalled a dark passenger who departed the ship after INS searched their papers. The man was gone when the FBI arrived.

### Destiny

Twenty-four hours after the cargo was dumped in the ocean, Destiny was passing through the entrance to Charlotte Harbor. Captain Thomas had pulled the sled up to the stern an hour earlier due to the extremely shallow water along the gulf coast. It was thirty minutes past midnight as they passed between Boca Grande and La Costa Islands, which form the mouth of the harbor. The Captain altered course slightly, steering 90 degrees at a speed of six knots. Ten minutes later, he changed course to 150 degrees for ten more minutes when his radar indicated he was one hundred yards off the north end of Big Smokehouse Key at a depth of only two fathoms, twelve feet. He ordered the crew to release the cables tethering the sled, which had been dragging on the sandy bottom, completing his contract. Once the cable was freed, he pressed the throttles forward and altered course to 360o, heading home. He would soon have his wife's money, and his crew had earned more than a year's wage on this cruise, without even filling the hold with fish.

Ashore on Pine Island in the dark, men aboard a small boat watched the cargo drop. Before Destiny was a mile away, the divers had already attached their boat to the sled only feet below the surface and were cutting the missile cases loose. The SA-18 GROUSE missile was shipped in a watertight carrying case about the size of a large golf bag. Before shipment from Liberia, the cases had been wrapped in neoprene with Vulcanized seams to provide additional protection from the water. This process added buoyancy to the missile and its case, yielding a package weighing about fifty pounds, almost enough to sink. Weights had been added to the sled to compensate for the buoyancy of the missile cases. As each case was freed, they floated to the surface. Two men in the boat lifted them aboard and took four at a time to shore among the Mangroves.

They had driven to the bay along a rustic trail that could hardly be called a road. It took four trips to the sled to unload the missiles. When done, one man drove the rental truck away, while the two divers steered the dive boat to the Punta Gorda Marina. The sled and debris were left in the shallow water.

### Traces

Rachael spent the night at the Hyatt Hotel near the Federal building and walked to the office at 7:30 in the morning to meet Brennan. Mark was already in the office and served her coffee saying, "Good morning. Did you sleep well?"

"Umm," nodding her head while sipping. She preferred tea, but appreciated his gesture.

Brennan said, "Okay, we need to get down to the Coast Guard Navigation Center. They've isolated the radar traces during the timeframe when Morzh dropped the load."

"Good, let's go." She didn't finish her coffee.

The Miami Coast Guard Navigation Center was located at 909 Southeast 1st Avenue, one mile south of the Port Authority where Majiid had entered the country the day before. It took almost an hour to drive from the Federal Building. When they arrived, Mark and Rachael were met by the XO (Executive Officer), Commander Jean O'Reilly. After introductions, O'Reilly led them to the building Operations Center that was filled with radar equipment and large LCD displays on the walls.

The XO said, "As I understand it, you want to get a histogram of the time-stamped trace of the Russian ship at sea, yesterday from 0000 to 0100?"

Brennan answered, "That's right, we're trying to get coordinates we can use to search for cargo dropped over the side early yesterday morning."

"Okay, we should be able to help. Our digital radar system follows all shipping traffic out to about forty miles depending on conditions. The radar data was converted to symbols showing the names of all vessels over two thousand tons displacement."

She continued, "I had Senior Chief Abbar load the DVR with traces from the last forty-eight hours. We were able to find the Morzh during the time you identified. Okay Chief, please display the trace on Quad 2."

The picture on the large screen in front of them showed line tracings of the Miami coastline and symbols of all major artifacts in the area: sunken ships, buoys, shallows, etc. In the center of the display was a small doughnut-shaped circle.

Abbar said, "That small circle is the path Morzh navigated until 0100 yesterday. The numbers beside the circle indicate the center lat long (latitude longitude) coordinates. That area is no more than a quarter mile wide, so it should be easy for 3D sonar to find the package at that depth, which is under two hundred feet."

The XO added, "If it's still there."

Rachael asked, "What do you mean Commander?"

"Sr. Chief, please explain."

"Well. Contraband exchanged offshore is usually transferred immediately. But, this was underwater, which is a first. So, I checked traces over the same area for a few hours. Look at this."

As they watched the screen, a small digital clock appeared in the lower-right corner indicating time in one-second intervals. The Chief was using the fast-forward control on the DVR to speed things up, stopping as a white line approaching from the north, converged with the Morzh track.

Abbar explained, "Notice that as the second trace reaches the drop area, it also slows and circles for about fifteen minutes, then proceeds south. I think it's reasonable to conclude the cargo was recovered by the second vessel."

Brennan was disappointed, "Wow. That was well coordinated. How long was the cargo on the bottom?"

"No more than three hours."

XO added, "We checked the radio log, and I think we can identify the vessel that made the pickup."

### Hunt for Destiny

It took a few minutes to identify Destiny as the suspected ship, with its homeport in Charlotte Harbor, one hundred twenty air miles west-northwest of Miami. At the speed tracked on radar, the vessel would be entering the harbor mid-morning.

Rachael knew they should hurry, "Commander, your team has done an incredible job here, and I need to ask one more favor. Can we speak in private?"

After walking to an interior office, she continued, "Commander, this is a matter of national security. The cargo we're tracking is not drugs, it has homeland security implications."

She waited a moment for that to settle in then continued, "We need to get fast transport, law enforcement and communications support at Port Charlotte."

O'Reilly said, "I'll have a JayHawk spun up at the air station, but I'll have to use your request as the basis. I'll also be sending a Coast Guard officer and some seamen along for maritime law enforcement support."

"Good, I can't say more right now, but I'll take responsibility."

The Coast Guard air station was twenty miles south, so O'Reilly directed the flight to come to the maritime terminal. Rachael and Mark walked six blocks north to the landing zone, arriving as the helicopter landed. The Jayhawk is the Coast Guard variant of the HH-60 utility helicopter (military "Blackhawk"). It's a large bird with a range of seven hundred miles flying at over 150 MPH.

When the aircraft settled on the wharf, a flight officer in an orange flight suit and helmet jumped from the side door and ran over to them, while leaning forward. "Hello! I'm Lt. Paul Johnson. I'll be traveling with you along with four NCOs aboard. We have weapons locked aboard, but we won't open the locker unless necessary. Let me help you board."

Rachael was wearing a skirt and Brennan had a business suit. Both were awkward climbing to the deck. Once aboard, the crew chief helped them strap into the "couch," simple canvas seats. Once in place, the immense engines accelerated and the aircraft made a vertical takeoff, banking to the right as they gained altitude over Miami rooftops. It was exhilarating. The Jayhawk has two gas turbines producing about 2000 horsepower each. Flying at three thousand feet with the door open, they had an amazing view of The Everglades below. The flight lasted forty minutes.

### Port Charlotte

En route to the landing zone, Lt. Johnson was on the radio coordinating with the Charlotte County Sheriff's office. They were directed to the marina parking lot at "Fisherman's Village" at Punta Gorda for landing. Hurricane "Charlie" had destroyed the marina in 2004 and the parking lot was still empty.

They touched down and the pilots shut off fuel to the engines. It took more than a minute for the engine noise and rotors to stop. As they stepped down, A large officer approached. "Hi, I'm Sheriff Glen Kowalczyk." After introductions, he continued, "The Harbormaster logged Destiny into port just after midnight." He had the address of the owner. While he was discussing details with Brennan, Rachael stepped away to make some calls from her mobile phone. She informed her assistant about the status so far and asked him to contact NSA for domestic support involving cellphone and email traffic. The call took about three minutes.

She rejoined the team. "Sorry, I had to check in."

Brennan remarked, "No problem Rachael, the Sheriff and his deputies are going to take us to the owner's house. He came to port about nine hours ago."

The Coast Guard aircrew stayed with their aircraft. The rest of the "Coasties," led by Lt. Johnson, fit into the two deputy's cars and the others went with Sheriff Kowalczyk. The caravan drove north up the Tamiami Trail over an expansive bridge across the Peace River. Kowalczyk explained that Destiny was birthed up the Myakka River and the owner lived in Murdock, around six miles away from the landing sight.

The trip to Captain Thomas's house took about ten minutes. Located on a narrow crushed-shell covered road, it was a small single story structure. It was about ten o'clock in the morning as they parked along the road in front. Mrs. Thomas was a vigilant woman, living alone most of the time and had seen the cars approaching. She felt apprehension as the Sheriff and Brennan walked to the door. They were going to knock when she answered the door.

Kowalczyk asked, "Hello, ma'am. Is this the Thomas residence?"

"Yes. Is there a problem? Is this about the divorce?"

Sheriff K responded, "No ma'am. These folks are with the Government and would like to talk to Captain Thomas."

"Oh dear. Ah, he hasn't been staying here. He's been on his boat for a couple of months now. He called me last night that he would be at the dock early this morning. So, he should be there by now. Is there something wrong?"

"We don't know for sure, ma'am. We just need to talk to him."

She gave them directions to the dock, about five minutes away. One of the deputies stayed with Mrs. Thomas to get her information, while the others drove to an old pier down a dirt road. As they got closer, they could see flashing lights in the distance and smoke rising.

### Loose Ends

Shortly after midnight that morning, the dive boat made a brief stop at the Punta Gorda Marina where Majiid was waiting. It touched the dock momentarily as he jumped aboard. Without a word, the driver turned due west, headed for the mouth of the Myakka River. They were less than an hour behind Destiny, but traveling three times faster. When they caught up, Destiny had arrived at its pier a few minutes before and the crew was busy securing equipment on deck. With hurricane damage, the commercial pier at Port Charlotte needed replacement, and Destiny was temporarily moored three miles up the river. It was the only boat using the pier, and was accessible from a one-lane dirt road leading to the highway.

As the small boat approached, Thomas went to the port side and received the bowline thrown by one of the dark men in a wetsuit, who said nothing. Over his shoulder, Thomas yelled to the other crewmen, "Boys, It looks like the balance of our money just arrived. We're all goin' to be happy men tonight!"

Majiid looked up and smiled as he climbed over the ship's gunwale onto the fishing deck. Some of the crew was surprised. They looked more Middle Eastern than Latin, but the money would be good, regardless of its origin. Majiid stumbled after stepping down onto the deck. He hated boats of any size. The two other men in the boat climbed aboard and stood behind him as he congratulated the crew. "Captain, we appreciate what you have done to get our cargo here safely. You have earned your pay, and I have an envelope of U.S. dollars as agreed."

That said, he opened his overcoat and pulled out a plump envelope and handed it to Thomas. The crewmen were typical fishing hands with little education or motivation. Their only requirement was having enough money ashore to survive between fishing trips. Money was always gone before shipping out, so the prospect of an entire year's income in one payment was overwhelming. Each had his fantasies about their great fortune and crowded around the Captain as he opened the envelope. Then the killing started.

The two men with Majiid pulled handguns while the crew was distracted. They had moved to opposite positions, blocking any escape. They shot fast, emptying several magazines into the crew, who tried to run, screaming in agony. Two tried jumping over the starboard side toward the pier, but were wounded and sluggish as the two gunmen walked behind shooting them several more times. They were all moaning and crawling on deck as the gunmen reloaded for a final time. They steadied their aim and fired for vital areas in the head and heart. Ned Thomas and Jim Cooper held up their hands defensively, pleading as Majiid calmly finished the job started by his accomplices, shooting both of them. Most were not clinically dead, but could not survive much longer.

After the shooting stopped, the killers lowered the buoy into their boat for disposal elsewhere in the murky river. They then untied one of the ship's fifty-gallon drums of reserve diesel fuel, removed the filler cap, and pushed it over onto the deck. The fuel gurgled and spread across the deck soaking the men who were dying. Majiid lit the envelope of blank paper on fire and threw it onto the spreading fuel as they jumped into the small boat. Diesel fuel is difficult to ignite, but burns intensely, once it starts. As they motored away, there was an explosion when another fuel barrel ignited. There would be more explosions as the fire intensified and reached the ship's main tanks. More loose ends were now resolved.

### To Washington

The Federal team and Sheriff arrived when the hulk was nothing more than a shell burned to the waterline. What remained of the hull barely floated the engine and machinery that fell as the deck disintegrated. There was no way to know if anyone had been aboard when it burned. The sheriff radioed his deputies to see if Mrs. Thomas knew who was aboard as crewmen. They would need to question everyone who had been on the boat. There were several old pickup trucks parked near the pier. Everyone was grave. Brennan called Rachael aside.

"Rachael, I don't know if it's related, but there was one more thing JJ learned from the Kravchenko kid. There was an Arab-looking guy on the ship who left before we got there."

At this point, there was nothing more to accomplish at the boat. Sherriff K would try to locate any crewmen who had gone ashore, but this seemed doubtful. Rachael needed to return to DC and start working with the other agencies. She asked the Sheriff if he could have someone drive her to MacDill AFB, near Tampa, and he offered to take her.

En route to MacDill, Headquarters of Special Operations Command (SOCOM), Rachael used her cellphone to call her office to arrange a flight to DC as soon as possible and to arrange a meeting with her counterparts at NSA, CIA, FBI and National Security Advisor.

Arriving at MacDill, the Sheriff was greeted by the Marine Guards who were all business. The SOCOM Commander, General Robert P. Gardner, USMC, had cleared their entry onto the base, complete with an escort to the flight line. The Sheriff fell into line behind a HMMWV with siren and lights as they sped along streets marked 25 MPH, at over sixty. It took a few minutes to reach the tarmac and continue speeding toward a line of aircraft. When they stopped, Rachael was surprised to see only fighter aircraft. As she stepped out of the car, an Air Force Captain approached asking, "Hello, are you Ms. Aston?"

"Yes. Yes that's me." She was getting more apprehensive by the second.

Holding out his hand, he said, "Scott Richards, ma'am. Do you have any luggage? I can carry some behind the rear seat."

"Rear seat? Ah, no. My things are at the FBI building in Miami!"

"Sorry ma'am. We're not going that direction. My orders are to get you to Washington -- fast."

"Yes, I know, but I didn't think that included flying in one of these."

"Fastest way I know to get there, ma'am. Although it'll be unusual having someone dressed like you in the back. Sorry, there's no easy way to get up there." He was pointing eight feet up at the raised canopy of an F-15E Strike Eagle.

"How...how do I get up there?"

"Well. The plane Captain and her crew will help you up the side with a ladder. Sorry again, it's almost straight up and you have to step over the side and down into the seat, so you might want to take off those high heels." He didn't have to tell her that she would have to hike up her dress climbing over the side. At least the ground crew were females.

As a rolling ladder was wheeled into place, the pilot, dressed in his flight suit, climbed up pegs extended down the side below the cockpit then stepped over the edge under the raised canopy and down into the front seat. Rachael noticed his call sign "Scotty" painted in grey letters. The Plane Captain, a Staff Sergeant, helped guide Rachael up the ladder and instructed her on where to step as she went up. At the top, she was told to place her hands on the pilot's headrest and step down into the back seat where the Weapons Officer sat, when the plane was on tactical missions. Once standing in the rear seat, holding onto the seatback in front of her, the Plane Captain instructed her on where to place her feet when seated, asking her to not touch the pedals and other controls at any time. The Sergeant then reached behind the seat and got a helmet, helping to place it gently over Rachael's head. With the helmet on, the ground crew secured her five-point safety belts making sure they were tight. "Sorry ma'am, these need to be tight for maneuvering or ejecting." Ejecting! She was becoming even more nervous.

The Sergeant connected the oxygen tube and intercom microphone, then signaled Rachael to say something, which Scott acknowledged. Once the helmet was in place and communications checked with the pilot, her final instructions were to keep her hands inside the aircraft while the canopy closed and, "enjoy the ride!"

The last statement was questionable. She would have been happy with a commercial flight from Tampa to DC, but she now knew what happened when a senior pentagon official needed to get somewhere fast. She would withhold judgment about doing this again until they landed. The helmet was too large, which was better for her hair. The pilot said, "Welcome aboard, ma'am. I'm going to start engines now, so it's going to get noisy. The canopy will stay up until we reach the active runway. It gets hot otherwise. We'll talk more after we get airborne."

With that introduction, the aircraft started to tremble and howled as the first turbine rotated deep in the fuselage. She could smell the fuel, and the sound was deafening. It took several seconds for it to reach sufficient pressure to ignite fuel. Scott pressed the ignition button until the engine came to life and began to scream. Then the procedure was followed again as the second engine fired. The entire plane felt like it was just a wrapper around two monstrous engines. In her headset she heard Scott say, "MacDill flight control, Eagle 502 is rolling, request runway 'One Eight Zero,' left turn on departure."

The response was garbled to her, but she heard Scott say, "Roger, one eight zero, left on departure, angels ten, 502 out." The canopy dropped fast as they taxied. The Eagle turned in a small arc onto the runway without stopping, then the engines roared. Rachael felt crushed in the seat as the plane accelerated faster than any other vehicle on earth. Her eyes watered, and her stomach felt compressed onto her spine. They were airborne in a few seconds, and the landing gear retracted before they were halfway down the runway. Scott made a gentle left banking turn near the control tower, then leveled as the gulf coast started disappearing behind them. Pressure on her body relaxed.

Scott spoke on the intercom. "We're going to be flying east to get over the Atlantic, then turn northeast to a point about sixty miles off North Carolina before turning left to course 330 near Virginia Beach. We'll be landing at Andrews. There'll be a car waiting for you, ma'am. We should have clear weather and a nice view from above forty thousand feet. We'll be above Mach One shortly, when permission is granted. Then above Mach Two over the water."

Rachael figured out how to drop the sun visor on the helmet and was looking from side to side. The view was awesome from inside the bubble surrounding her. After a moment she said, "How fast will this thing go?"

"Ma'am, the Strike Eagle puts out over fifty thousand pounds of thrust and can fly straight up on engine power alone. It's rated to fly level nearly three times the speed of sound, and we'll be close today. ETA to Quantico is forty minutes from now, give or take."

"Wow, Captain, can I call you Scott?" Affirmed. "They actually pay you for this! By the way, call me Rachael."

"Okay, Rachael, but only up here. Yeah, this is what every kid dreams about, and I get to do it for money. By the way, let me know if you want to drive."

"You're kidding, right?"

"No, seriously, up here it's safe if you don't overdo it."

"Won't it fly apart at this speed if I wiggle it?"

"No, it doesn't work like that, this bird is completely computer controlled. The flight controls adjust to the speed, so you can't overdo it. It's pretty hard to screw up."

"Okay, what do I do?"

"See the pedals by your feet? They control left and right rudder. I'll handle the rudder, so you just touch them lightly to feel the motion. Now, see the stick controller. It's centered between your knees. You're tall enough so the seat should be set okay."

She responded, "I have my feet on the rudder pedals and the control stick in my hands."

"Rachael, just touch the pedals lightly and let me control them. You'll feel how they work when I move them. Now, the stick should be in one hand, right if you're right handed."

"Okay, I think everything is right."

"Hold one." She heard him talking to an air controller, acknowledged something and turned slightly north while accelerating again. It wasn't like a commercial flight because the acceleration in the air was much more abrupt and powerful. Once again, she was pressed hard into the seat.

"Okay Rachael. Sorry, that was Patrick control giving me some instructions and allowing us to proceed through Mach One. Now. Back where we were. We're at twenty thousand feet, climbing to thirty, and we need to make a left heading change from 090 degrees to 060, left thirty degrees. Look at the compass reading in front of you on the display. It will look like a small airplane with the digital heading reading at the nose."

"Yes, got it."

"When I say so, push the stick gently toward your left knee, only about a half inch, and use your fingertips only. Keep just a little pressure towards you to maintain the climb while turning. Got that?"

"I think so."

"Okay. Turn left thirty."

She pushed the stick left just a little and also realized that she was looking down at the stick, with no idea what was ahead of the plane. It was like looking at the gas pedal in a car instead of the road. "That's good. Now ease up on the back pressure. Are you watching the compass?"

"Okay, yeah." She felt perspiration forming on her brow.

"Now. As we pass through seventy degrees, gently start to let the stick come back to center. Not so fast, just settle gently at our new heading. Perfect! Now, check your altimeter. Inside it, there's a small dial indicator showing the rate of climb. Keep that at two thousand and we'll be at our cruise altitude shortly."

Rachael said, "Wow. That was awesome. You take it now. I've had all the excitement I want today!"

"My pleasure. You're now a junior F-15 fighter pilot--Hah!"

Once at altitude, the sensation of speed disappeared without visual references, so she sat back and watched through the occasional puffy white clouds below. The ride didn't last long, and the approach to Andrews AFB was faster than she had experienced with commercial flights. Once again, the pressure sensations were harsher than she liked, and the plane banked steeply as Scott squared-off the turns. They were sinking fast toward the runway when the wheels touched, jolting her.

They taxied fast and Scott made one final tight turn as the engines began to die and the canopy raised. Almost immediately, there was an airman alongside helping disconnect things. The Air Force had been thoughtful enough again to have a female helping her. As she came down the ladder, Scott, Captain Richards, was already on the ground waiting. "Thank you, Captain. Here's my card. When you're in Washington next time, I want you to call and I'll buy you dinner."

"Thanks, Ms. Aston. I'll look forward to it." With that, he snapped to attention and saluted saying, "Ma'am." Then he turned and returned to his plane. Rachael followed a Marine to the waiting Government sedan for a mundane ride to the Pentagon for the briefings she had requested.

### FBI Alert

Brennan returned to Miami with the Coast Guard team late Thursday night. Sheriff Kowalczyk would continue the investigation in Charlotte County. Mark had briefed him on the possibility that it could involve Middle Eastern terrorists, but nothing more specific.

They touched down at the air station around two o'clock in the morning and Mark drove to his apartment for a few-hours sleep, although he knew it would be impossible. This had been the most exciting day since he joined the bureau, complete with international intrigue, murder and a beautiful woman. He had the beginning of a good book someday.

After lying awake for a few hours, he was back in the office by seven o'clock in the morning, researching information about threats of missile attacks on aircraft inside U.S. borders. The missiles were somewhere on the mainland, and it was time to elevate the threat..

In his research, he discovered that in 2002, The FBI notified the U.S. aviation industry that it was a target for al-Qaida. Executives of the NSA met secretly with airline executives to discuss terrorist plans to use man-portable missiles against U.S. commercial airliners. The meeting was chaired by the Chief of the Transportation Security Administration (TSA) and attended by two-dozen airline CEOs. They reviewed the real threat that shoulder-fired infrared-guided missiles would be used against jets taking off and landing. Many of the world arsenals for these deadly SAMs (Surface to Air Missiles) were uncontrolled or looted. The FBI issued a bulletin dated May 22, 2002 via the National Law Enforcement Telecommunications System, warning that al-Qaida was planning to use shoulder-fired SAMs in the United States.

The public wasn't informed of the danger, fearing economic disruption. Commercial planes had no defensive systems installed, yet the technology had been proven for decades on military aircraft. The cost of adding such systems to airliners was considered too high. The only commercial planes with a full complement of defensive weapons were the President's fleet.

Captured al-Qaida training videos showed the real danger these missiles from these missiles. SAMs had already been used to shoot down commercial aircraft in Central America. The CIA issued reports that shoulder-fired missiles had hit at least forty civilian aircraft around the world, killing over a thousand air travelers.

The first thing Brennan did was talk to his boss, Special Agent in Charge (SAC), Sandra Ryan. With her concurrence, he issued an FBI intelligence bulletin to all field offices, headquarters and the intelligence agencies. These bulletins have restricted readership and are not published on the FBI website.

FBI Intelligence Bulletin:

FBI FIELD OFFICE IN MIAMI HAS RELIABLE INFORMATION, WORKING WITH ARMY INTELLIGENCE, THAT SURFACE-TO-AIR MISSILES HAVE ENTERED THE U.S. THROUGH PORT CHARLOTTE, FL, WITHIN THE LAST TWENTY FOUR HOURS. NO INFORMATION REGARDING WHEREABOUTS OF THE MISSILES. FOR INFORMATION, CONTACT SA BRENNAN, (305) 944-9101, OR mark.brennan.miami@ic.fbi.gov.

### Peter Shields

Rachael was in her office earlier than usual on Friday, with her bagel and tea. As soon as she sat down at her desk, she called a familiar number in Springfield, Illinois, Headquarters of the Illinois Military Department (National Guard). She asked for Major Peter Shields.

The phone range once. "Major Shields."

"Hey, did you miss me yesterday?"

"Hi! You know I did."

"Guess what I did?"

"You mean besides forgetting to call me?"

"Yep. I flew a plane at two times the speed of sound! It was an F-15."

"Okay, now I'm a jealous man! I was going to tell you what I did, but what could possibly compare? So, tell me about it."

Rachael told him all about the flight.

He responded, "Wow. I will be eternally jealous! I guess that explains why you were too tired to call me last night!"

"I had a lot on my mind, not more important than you, just different,"

He sensed something was wrong, "You don't usually call during work hours. So, tell me what's got you worried?"

"Tell me what you know about SA-18s."

He responded, "This isn't a social call, is it?"

Major Peter Shields met Rachael Aston almost a year before. He was an Army Ranger who had been assigned to help an FBI counter-terrorism team in Chicago. Together, they helped stop a terrorist with several small atomic bombs, and both were severely wounded in the process. Having been bloodied together, their relationship continued to strengthen through recovery. Their careers had advanced since then, and Peter was planning to move to Washington for a position at National Guard Bureau Headquarters. He had thoughts of asking her to marry him. Her prodding wasn't as necessary as he pretended. He was an old-fashioned boy from a Pennsylvania coal town, while she was gentry from Connecticut. He was a night school graduate suited to Army life, while she was Ivy League. He shied away from social forums, while she loved the Washington limelight. Everything about her enchanted him.

He was one of the best and brightest Army officers, yet preferred duty out of the mainstream military professions. Peter had migrated to the Special Operations forces early in his career, which suited him ideally. As a "Green Beret," he worked in small units of soldiers and members of elite forces from other branches of the military. They operated in small teams that bonded closely together. He appreciated the intimacy of his profession more than being a number in a regular Army unit. He was good as a secret warfare practitioner, highly decorated, and didn't have to deal much with bureaucracy.

Before working with the FBI and meeting Rachael in Chicago, he had been on the brink of a breakdown. He had resigned from the Army months earlier after an extremely bad mission, when support was withheld and his men all died. Out of the Army, he migrated around various menial jobs as a laborer, virtually invisible to society, only to be drawn back into service by the national emergency. Out of the mainstream Army, his route back had been through the National Guard.

Rachael was a government Intelligence Analyst who would have been untouchable to him socially, yet fate brought them together under terrifying circumstances. Meeting her gave him renewed reason to go forward with his personal life and career. He knew he loved her, yet still felt undeserving, despite the ordeal they had survived together and the countless people they had saved from nuclear holocaust.

Peter was working in Illinois as a laborer at a country club when re-activated as a reserve officer because he had experience against this particular Islamic terrorist. During the Chicago crisis, the department of defense had given him the brevet (temporary) rank of Lt. Colonel, which he kept until recuperated from wounds. After that, he had accepted a military post as a Major with the Illinois State Adjutant General as his Deputy Commander, Operations (DCS/OPS). Although this was a position for a Colonel, or LTC "promotable," the National Guard Bureau made an exception for him after the success in Chicago that brought Presidential recognition. After defeating the terrorists, he received an open offer from the Chief of the National Guard to come to Washington.

### SA-18

As they talked, Peter began to recite facts about the SA-18. He had encountered the nasty things in Afghanistan and had used one when escaping during a mission.

The SA-18 was a shoulder-fired surface-to-air heat-seeking missile, used to shoot down airplanes at low and medium altitudes. It was designed in Russia and produced in China and North Korea as well. It was an outgrowth of the SA-7, first encountered by the U.S. military in Vietnam. It had aerodynamic improvements over the SA-7 for better range and speed. It weighed about 40 pounds and could be launched within twenty seconds from the time it was lifted from its shipping case. It can reach aircraft at eleven thousand feet with a slant range of seventeen thousand feet. It has a 4.6 lb. high-explosive warhead, capable of destroying the largest jet engines in the world, while causing extensive structural damage to the wings and fuselage of the plane. It uses an infrared guidance system, and can engage targets traveling up to 900 MPH.

In 2002, it was revealed by the Russians that thousands of SA-18s had been smuggled out of military arsenals during the 1990s. On the black market, the SA-18 could be purchased around the world for $100,000 apiece. They were available from Libya and many rogue states anxious to sell arms for revenue and from unsavory arms dealers with even less altruistic goals.

Following the technical description, Rachael commented, "So, when can you be here? I have a place for you to stay."

### Warning

Mark Brennan began receiving emails and phone calls almost immediately from his alert message. Those that came from law enforcement were his responsibility. The messages from intelligence agencies were referred to Rachael Aston.

Most of the inquiries questioned the source of missiles, transporting, and any information about the threat. In all cases, he responded with what was known, which wasn't very much. Late in the day, he got a telephone call from Sheriff Kowalczyk saying that they had checked the vehicles by the pier and all belonged to the crew. His team had also checked with local truck rental companies that might be used to transport contraband, and had a lead. There was a large delivery truck rented to a man with a beard and foreign accent. It was found abandoned in a condemned hotel parking lot a couple miles from the rental office. It was still under the lease period, but it was clearly abandoned. In the back of the truck, the deputies found piles of rubber and some rope. The tires were covered in mud and the chassis looked like it had been taken off road. It was a familiar scenario in South Florida. Drugs are often distributed into multiple cars and trucks before being driven north.

### Atlantic Airlines

Gerhardt Adler arrived at his office at Atlantic Airlines at eight o'clock in the morning. As CEO, he expected everyone in the office when he arrived. The headquarters building was spacious and modern, appropriate for the country's rising star among airlines. In fact, the office had been renovated every few years as economic factors drove competition out of the market. He was pleased at the success they had enjoyed with a newer fleet of aircraft and the strongest brand in the industry. Success between airlines generally hinged on its ability to counterbalance equipment and fuel cost with customer satisfaction. If he had any major concerns, they were the cost of fuel and the greed of the unions.

It was a beautiful morning in Atlanta until Benjamin (Benny) Hopps, SVP of Aircraft Security, rushed down the hall toward his office. As Benny walked passed Adler's secretaries, he held up a piece of paper fresh from the printer. He was agitated, "Gerry, take a look at this."

It was a copy of email to their "customer relations" web address. As Adler read it, he turned red, then white, "Is this a hoax? This has got to be some idiot trying to disrupt operations. Ignore it. This is ridiculous!"

"Gerry, we must take this seriously. What if this maniac isn't fooling around?"

The message read:

"To the owner of Atlantic Airlines,

Greetings from the Apostles of Islam. Today, we will shoot down one of your airplanes from the sky. We will do it again each day if you do not meet our demands. If you do not fly, we will wait until you do. Our demand is simple, deposit $100 millions of U.S. dollars in our bank account by wire transfer. I will give you the transfer information only ten minutes before you must send the money so nobody will try to hurt us. We are very serious as you will soon see."

### The Crash

Rachael was successful getting Peter reassigned from Illinois to the Guard Bureau in Washington. He would arrive tomorrow, exciting her beyond belief. She had seen him, been with him, twice in the last three months after they had recovered from the Chicago crisis. Each time, she had hated their departure. Now they could be together under the same roof.

Her bliss was interrupted when Sergeant Lucy Rice came to her office, "Sorry to bother you Ms. Aston, The UDA (Undersecretary, Department of the Army) office called and says you need to turn on the news ASAP." Like most Washington executives, Rachael had a small LCD television on the wall of her office. As she pushed the power button on the remote control, she whispered to herself, "Not today! Not this week!" With foreboding, she turned on CNN. The scene was billowing black smoke in a residential community. Through the black undulating clouds, the tail of an airplane appeared intermittently.

She continued watching as reporters described the scene. Her intuition connected the missiles to the horror, but she needed to hear more to confirm it. The news reporter said, "An airliner has crashed shortly after takeoff from Atlanta. It was a Boeing 737, en route to Miami with a full passenger load. Preliminary reports indicate that one of two engines exploded within seconds after liftoff and the pilot lost control, plummeting into a residential area. Casualties were not known but no one survived on the airplane, and there are casualties on the ground."

Even if there were some other explanation, there would be speculation about a missile attack as there was with the TWA flight 800 when it exploded over Long Island Sound heading for Paris in 1996. At that time, there were numerous reports of surface to air missile launches, one even cited a Navy warship firing a SAM missile at the airplane. None of it was true. The airplane had a malfunction in an electrical circuit passing through the central fuel tank, but the news stories nevertheless persisted for years that a SAM missile had been the cause. This time, she feared it would be true.

In a matter of minutes, Mark Brennan was on the phone to Rachael.

"Hello, Mark."

"Hi, Rachael, I guess you've heard about Atlanta?"

"Yeah, do you think it's one of the missiles?"

"It could be. We're on the phone right now with the Atlanta office. We sent out an Intelligence Bulletin on Friday warning about the possibility. We're trying to verify an attack, if we can."

"Okay, thanks, any more Florida leads?"

"No, the trail seems to have gone cold."

"Thanks for the call, Mark. Let me know if anything is learned. Who should I contact in Atlanta?"

"The SAC is Henry Walkens, who is probably the right person for you to call. Their main office number is: (he gave the number)."

"Thanks."

### Atlanta

Two days earlier, the missiles had been moved out of Florida. Like the illicit drug trade, Florida was only the entry point for the missiles, where they were to be transported north and west. Majiid had feared roadblocks leaving Port Charlotte if they moved too slowly. There are very few northerly routes out of Florida, and it would be easy to seal them off. Middle Eastern men would attract enough suspicion, so traveling with the missiles was imprudent. American ingenuity had provided a convenient solution: Portable On-Demand Storage (PODS). The solution was perfect. The company delivered trailer-size storage containers to any location for owners to pack with their goods, then delivered the POD to another location. Majiid had arranged for a POD to be deposited at a vacant lot near a row of storm-damaged homes that were unoccupied in Charlotte County. The dispatcher was given an address and credit card that had been approved. It was an odd location, but Majiid explained that goods were being removed for safekeeping while the home next to the lot was demolished.

The container was dropped at the Florida address in the afternoon and scheduled for pickup at eight o'clock the next morning, with shipping instructions to an Atlanta suburb. After driving the rental truck around town until midnight, it took only ten minutes to transfer the sixteen missile containers into the POD. Two men watched the street in case a police patrol came through the unoccupied neighborhood.

With the missiles and weapons locked inside the container, Majiid and two men drove north in a car purchased for them by another U.S. Muslim collaborator. The others went back to their occupations in the local communities.

Majiid's drive north had taken ten hours with three accomplices, obeying the speed limit. Their destination was a rented house in the town of Hapeville in suburban Atlanta, adjacent to the Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport. The man who had rented it was a taxi driver, living in the area. He had found a house located near the end of runway 90 as instructed. Majiid didn't know the man, but he had been recommended through a local cleric supporting their cause. He could not be fully trusted.

Late in the afternoon, the container was delivered on the driveway, but it wouldn't be opened until late at night. Majiid and his men drove to a Moroccan restaurant located through a web search by stopping at a local Wi-Fi hot spot. The most serious threats to their success were already behind them and the men were relaxed. The delivery and recovery at sea was the most hazardous phase. Killing the boat crew was just added insurance against being caught. They had brought sixteen missiles into the U.S. without detection. The rest of the mission would surely succeed.

They stayed at the restaurant until closing, then drove back to the house around midnight. Before opening the POD, all three men stood in the driveway silently, unmoving for several seconds trying to detect anyone awake in the neighboring houses. When everything appeared quiet, they moved without talking up the driveway where they removed the missiles from the container, into the garage. The ambient light from the stars and the landing lights from aircraft was enough to work in. The process took under five minutes, without a word spoken. A few hours later, the POD container would be removed.

Late in the pre-dawn morning, three other windowless utility vans were driven to the house. They had been purchased the day before from local used car dealers and were driven by two-man teams. The men were all American citizens from "sleeper cells" around the country. None knew each other before receiving instructions for this mission. Each of the three trucks was loaded with five missiles. They departed with specific time and destination instructions from Majiid being cautioned not to attract the police. None of them knew where the others were headed. As dawn was breaking, Majiid went to a local coffee house with Wi-Fi internet access to send an email, then they returned to the house for a few hours' sleep. Majiid dreamed peacefully.

### Demonstration

The firing angle from the rear yard of the house in Hapeville was perfect. The airplane was climbing almost overhead about one thousand feet above, on schedule. As it passed over, the infrared seeker in the missile chirped repeatedly, indicating positive lock on the engine exhaust. Majiid pressed the thumb lever to fire the missile, which screamed through the sky into the rear of the starboard engine. At impact, the engine exploded and shrapnel disintegrated much of the wing. The aircraft was in a fifteen-degree nose-up attitude moving at 250 knots. It never reached two thousand feet. Momentum carried it about a half mile before it started to roll as the pilot struggled to level the wings and get the nose down. They were too low to regain control. The plane could land with one engine, but the pilot could not regain flight control quickly enough with the damaged wing.

Before it crashed, Majiid and his two accomplices had thrown the launcher inside the garage and were already driving away. They would circumnavigate Atlanta using I-285 toward I-95 heading north. As they merged onto the Interstate, there was a huge cloud of smoke in the East. In one hour, they would stop for prayers and give thanks to Allah.

Two hours after the 737 crashed, another message was sent.

"To the owner of Atlantic Airlines,

Greetings again from the Apostles of Islam. Your airplane is shot down as promised. Your police will find the missile launcher in the car garage at 133 Central Park Drive in Hapeville. You will now know that we are serious about our mission. You are instructed to be ready for transfer of $100 millions dollars by electronic transfer tomorrow at 1200 hours. You will receive bank transfer information only at 1145, so you must have everything arranged. If you do not transfer the money, then we will shoot down your airplanes until you do. You must acknowledge your agreement by return email to this address no later than 1600 today"

The Atlanta FBI office had been informed of the threat against Atlantic earlier in the day. Benny Hopps sent a copy of the second message to them immediately then headed toward Adler's office.

The FBI forwarded the second message to their laboratory in Washington DC, where it was further distributed to NSA and the CIA. It was also distributed to the Army Intelligence Command at Ft. Meade. The first message was received six hours earlier. The source of the email was identified as a web-based site somewhere in the Middle East. By using email service through a website, it lost its origin address, concealing the sender. The only way to identify the sender was through cooperation with the website provider, which was difficult with "friendly" countries and impossible in hostile areas.

Shortly after the second message was received, two Special Agents of the FBI were dispatched to the address. En route, they requested support from the Hakeville town constable. Arriving there half an hour later, they found most of the houses on the block derelict and unoccupied. The garage door on Central Drive was unlocked. Inside, as described, the SA-18 launcher was found. It was left untouched for forensic examination. The senior agent made a radio call to the SAC to describe the scene.

Special Agent Julie Bishop used her cellphone to call Benny Hopps, but he didn't answer. His Executive Assistant took a message that they were en route to see him. When they arrived, Benny's assistant escorted them to Adler's office.

After introductions, Agent Bishop explained "Gentlemen, we want to tell you what we know so far."

Benny said "Now, Julie, we want everyone to know how seriously we are taking this. Mr. Adler and I were just considering our next action."

"Fine, Benny, you and I have known each other quite a while, so let's get right to it. We believe the threats you have received are genuine. Several days ago, we believe a shipment of Russian SAM missiles was smuggled into Florida. We haven't been able to find them, and they could be anywhere in the country by now. We just came from a garage by the airport and found a missile launcher as described in the second message."

Adler scowled, "Hum, SA-18s are nasty little things. We had SAMs fired at us in Vietnam, I lost s,everal buddies to them. So, you think this creep is serious?"

Julie responded, "Sir, we believe he, or they, are dead serious and have the means to carry out their threats. One of the reasons we're here is to inform you that we'll be sending alert messages to all U.S. law enforcement and intelligence agencies, as well as the airlines. There'll undoubtedly be some kind of public notification."

Adler said, "That's to be expected. What would you recommend we do?"

"Sir, that's not up to us. I suspect TSA (Transportation Safety Administration) will issue directives."

Adler responded, "Including shutting my airline down! How long do I have before you catch these guys?"

Benny interrupted, "Gerry, they don't know that."

Adler yelled, "It doesn't matter! Atlantic will be screwed anyway. What do you think, Special Agent? Should we pay the ransom?"

Benny said, "She can't advise you, Gerry, you know that. Thank you, Julia. We'll take it from here."

The FBI agents stood, shook hands with the executives and met Benny's assistant again for escort out.

Adler spoke to Benny, "Okay, I need to call an emergency conference with the Board."

### South of the Border

It was nearing four o'clock in the afternoon when Majiid and his accomplices turned off I-95 into South Carolina's famous "South of the Border" convenience center in Dillon, S.C., a 350-acre roadside attraction with shops, restaurants, and concrete statues with a Mexican theme. They were hungry and searched for a restaurant with Internet service. After filling their trays cafeteria style, they sat at a table away from other travelers.

Majiid used his laptop, checking for email. He had one message forwarded from outside the country.

From Benjamin Hopps, Senior Vice President for aircraft security, Atlantic Airlines. We agree to transfer $100 million dollars, to secure the safety of our passengers and crews against further attacks by the group calling itself "Apostles of Islam." We will have our bankers ready to execute wire transfer of funds upon receipt of your instructions at 1145 tomorrow EST. Please provide transfer information to my email address with this message....

While he could barely contain his excitement, he could not divulge any information to his companions. Neither of them spoke or read English, and they believed the mission was to kill Americans. Instead, under the brilliant planning and financing by his leader, they were building the financial means for a much larger campaign against the Americans. Oh, the wisdom.

He wrote one more email to a private address:

My dear beloved Leader, Your vision is surely from God. The Infidels have agreed to pay the first ransom tomorrow! Kindly provide bank transfer information to me. Allah is surely proud - Insha'Allah!

### Peter and Rachael Reunited

Peter had cleaned out his desk and apartment even before his orders arrived. He felt excitement mixed with apprehension. He met Rachael under unnatural circumstances and kept their relationship going through distant communiqués. He loved her, but wasn't sure about how it would be living close, under normal conditions.

He had made some good friends in a short time with the Illinois NGB, particularly Stokes and his family, and would miss them. Without waiting for official release from his duties, he packed his old Explorer and began the fourteen-hour drive to Washington. It was barely after four in the morning when he left Springfield and the weather was clear. By sunrise, he was on the beltway around Indianapolis where he stopped for gas and a quick breakfast. The anticipation of being with Rachael again, was exhilarating. He didn't think about the missiles.

He drove through the day above the posted speed limits. He could almost sense her presence as he motored eastward throughout the day. He could find the Washington beltway and Georgetown easily enough. Once there, he would use the Waze application to find her townhouse. Once in the Capitol region, he left the I-and began navigating the one-way streets near her place. He never liked city driving, but it didn't dampen his excitement one bit. She was near.

Rachael left work early to make a special dinner for Peter. She stopped in the underground mall for groceries and bought two steaks. She had a small cooking repertoire, but Peter could handle grilling duties when he arrived. At seven o'clock the early summer sky was losing its color, aiding the mode created with candle light at the table. She turned on her favorite jazz music. Then there was a knock on the door and she ran, throwing it open. "Peter!"

He smiled and pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her, lifting her out through the doorway onto the front stoop. They kissed and he ran his fingers through her silky hair. He loved the smell of her hair. He loved everything about her. Not a word had been spoken, but they were communicating. His dreams of her could never replace reality. He loved her and from all indications, she loved him.

That night, they dined and talked until midnight. He should have been exhausted from the long drive, but his fatigue evaporated near her. When dinner ended, he helped do the dishes and selected some music, while she poured more wine. When she carried the glasses into the living room, they took off their shoes and slow danced to Celine Dion. Almost no words were spoken. They had talked every day since she left Chicago all those months earlier. Now it was time to embrace. Eventually, they went upstairs to the bedroom, and nothing about the missiles had been discussed. That could wait until morning.

### Washington Emergency Meeting

When Rachael got to the office early the next morning, she had a message that the Justice Department was calling a meeting at 10:00AM in the Reagan Building, Conference Room 132. The subject was a SAM Missile Threat inside the US--NOFORN—no foreign citizens) allowed. The list included more than one hundred people from all federal law enforcement and intelligence agencies. She cleared her calendar and sat down to answer email messages before heading to the meeting. It was only a fifteen-minute metro ride from Pentagon Station, but she needed ten more minutes to clear security and find the conference room in the enormous building.

She left her office at 9:15AM and walked to the underground Pentagon station. The Yellow Line train was just arriving and she took it to Metro Center where she transferred to the Red Line. It was two stops before she exited below Reagan. She was early, so she went down to the food court below. She drank tea with some acquaintances before they all went upstairs to the meeting.

She seated herself near the front. Long rows of tables had been set up with an aisle through the center leading to a podium. As people filed in, a French military officer walked down the aisle and greeted officials assembling at the speaker table. NOFORN? He sat on the end. She took her seat. There was about three feet separating each row of tables, so she would stand if more people chose to sit near the front with her. She had just scooted forward with her knees under the table when someone said, "Excuse me, ma'am, is that seat next to you taken?" Peter!

Rachael was surprised,"Whah...?"

Peter interjected, "Well, it seems that the Bureau has loaned my body to Army Intelligence under your Lt. General John Simmons, who ordered me here."

Rachael responded, "We'll be working together, how coincidental is that!"

"I'm not sure it's a coincidence, didn't you make some calls? Anyway, someone thinks we make a good team. You're the brains and the beauty, I'm just the brawn."

She just smiled as the speaker began, "Hello, I'm Jerry Burch, Assistant Director of the Counterterrorism Division, FBI. Thank you all for coming without more notification. I'm sure you can guess why we're here, but in case you've been locked in a freezer, we have evidence that terrorists smuggled missiles into CONUS and shot down an airliner day before yesterday.

"This is not a formal meeting and there's no specific agenda, so we want to hear from everyone who has information or ideas."

While Mr. Burch spoke, Rachael's Blackberry started vibrating indicating a new email message. She pulled it discretely from her purse and lowered it below tabletop level. The sender was Mark Brennan, Miami FBI. It read, "Rachael, sled found. Also, debris from a rental truck. Believe sixteen missiles came into the US."

Returning to Burch, "...and now, I am pleased to introduce Colonel Jean-Luc Michaud, Military Attaché at the French Embassy. Colonel Michaud."

Michaud was a tall man in his late forties, with white flowing hair. He didn't look military in demeanor, and it was easy to see why he was assigned embassy duty in Washington. He spoke nearly perfect English. "Good morning. As Mr. Burch said, I am Jean-Luc Michaud, and many of you know me. For those who do not, my military profession is in the area of Intelligence. Several days ago, our organization provided information about a shipment of missiles to the U.S. on a ship from Liberia. This information was provided to Ms. Aston of the U.S. DoD. I understand Ms. Aston is here today? (Rachael raised a hand momentarily). Ah yes. With this information, Ms. Aston, together with the FBI in Miami Florida, came very close to apprehending the missiles. But alas, the terrorists escaped."

He continued, "Since my country's first intelligence report, more information has been received, which may be very important. We now know the identity of the terrorist who is bringing the missiles to America. He is Hasan Abd al-Majiid. You will find many pictures and his biography in your intelligence files. He is a very bad man.

"Majiid is a killer who does what he is told. He commands small groups of terrorists, but always under direction from others. In this case, we do not know who provided the missiles and is paying for operations in the US, but it is someone with large resources. These missiles are very expensive to buy, but available. We suspect that this mission is sponsored by a terror state, but we have no verified intelligence regarding this.

"I hope this information is useful."

Burch moved back to the podium, "Thank you Jean-Luc. Now, without any notice, I'd like to invite Ms. Rachael Aston to bring everyone up to speed with respect to Florida operations."

Rachael walked confidently to the podium, adjusting the microphone before saying, "Ladies and gentlemen, last Thursday, I was with the FBI in Florida looking for missiles smuggled into the U.S. aboard a large fishing trawler through Port Charlotte. We got to the trawler within hours of its arrival back in port, but the missiles were not aboard. The crew was killed and the ship burned. Later evidence indicates that some or all of the missiles were moved outside Florida. We now suspect one of these missiles shot down the Atlantic flight in Atlanta, killing hundreds of people. A launcher has been recovered, indicating that these are Russian SA-18 shoulder-fired missiles, which you can find on the web."

She continued, "Something odd about this terrorist crime is that ransom demands were made to protect future flights. I'm not sure what that means with respect to our aircraft industry, or even if it's truly an act of terrorism. It could be old-fashioned extortion. Okay, that's where we're at today, that's it for me, Mr. Burch."

"Thank you Rachael."`

### Boston

Majiid and his men drove all night. He had been careful to be sure all of his men had valid international driving licenses, and counterfeit passports and visas. He was also careful to have the missiles carried in other trucks along with their arsenal of weapons. There was nothing in his car to cause any concern if police stopped them.

It was early morning when they arrived at their new "safe house" in Canton, MA, just south of Boston. Again, a local friend of their cause had arranged to rent the house. Canton was a semi-rural area with houses spread widely apart due to septic conditions in the granite-based soil. With colonial-era farms now returned to woodlands, many houses are concealed, and New Englanders keep to themselves. This suited Majiid's plan. When they drove on to the stone driveway, a truck towing a boat was parked in the woods behind the house. The small house would be crowded.

As the men reunited, Majiid took the car and went searching for a Wi-Fi connection. Today he would deliver two messages. Near the Interstate, he located a large strip-mall with a Barnes & Noble, including a Starbucks franchise with Internet service.

Settling at a table with a large hot tea, he initiated his laptop. Once online, there was a message from his handler, under his code name Duke. Majiid was congratulated on his amazing victory. Duke said the sensational crash of the airplane was worth their expense, and the Islamic world was praying for more such victories! The ransom money on top of this would be like finding gold below the sea, such a wonderful accomplishment! He provided the routing code and information for Majiid's next message to Atlantic Airlines.

Majiid felt very important and would surely gain a high post, perhaps a Minister's position when he returned to his home country. But now, it was time for his next message to Atlantic Airlines.

After completing the message, he was thinking about his next target. He would get confirmation of the Atlantic money transfer from Duke once the accounts were cleared, a process that can take days, even with electronic funds. If the funds did not arrive, he would shoot down another Atlantic airliner. Now it was time to send his second message of the day.

"To the owner of United Airlines,

Greetings from the Apostles of Islam. We have destroyed an Atlantic Airlines airplane. Tonight, we will shoot down one of yours. We will do it again each day if you do not meet our demands. If you do not fly, we will wait until you do. Our demand is simple, deposit $100 millions of U.S. dollars in our bank account tomorrow by wire transfer. I will give you the transfer information only ten minutes before you must send the money so nobody will try to hurt us. We are very serious as you will soon see."

The reaction at United was very much the same as at Atlantic. The following message was sent:

Apostles of Islam. United airlines agrees to pay $100 million per your demand to protect our passengers, employees and property. It will take two days to make financial arrangements, so please submit your instructions for wire transfer on Monday as the international banking community does not work of Saturday. Monday is the next working day. In the future, contact Harold Levine, VP, General Council, United Airlines.

That night one of United Airline's Boeing 717 (S80) aircraft departing Dallas/Ft. Worth airport was struck in the port engine by a missile, but managed to land with damage, at Love Field. A flight attendant and two passengers in the rear seats were killed when the engine disintegrated. The plane was severely damaged, and might not fly again.

That evening, another message was sent to United:

"To the owner of United Airlines,

Greetings again from the Apostles of Islam. You must think we are stupid. You will follow my time instruction, not yours. On Sunday, we will shoot down another United airplanes. We will do it again each day if you do not meet our demands. If you do not fly, we will wait until you do. Our demand is to deposit $100 millions of U.S. dollars in our bank account by wire transfer. I will give you the transfer information only ten minutes before you must send the money so nobody will try to hurt us. We are very serious as you see. You have until 1200 tomorrow to agree......"

There was no immediate response from United.

### Ft. Meade

News coverage was persistent surrounding the Atlanta crash. With another missile attack in Dallas, people were afraid to fly anywhere. This threatened to bring down the American economy unless the Government could protect passengers. Business travel slowed dramatically and vacations were cancelled. The airlines had no choice but to refund airfares. With more than one million workers affected, an economic disaster was possible.

An Emergency Task Force office was established in the FBI headquarters building with several hundred people assigned, with one objective in mind -- capture the missiles and capture or kill the terrorists. Peter and Rachael were both assigned to help the team. Late Friday night, a plan was forming. Two of sixteen missiles had been fired, leaving fourteen. With distance and time, it wasn't possible for the same group to have fired the missiles. The attacks had occurred at airports where major carriers share runways. For United, there were five choices, Atlantic, nine. There were other important but less symbolic airlines such as Delta and USAir, but the current threat was targeted at United.

Early Saturday morning, Peter was lying semi-awake beside Rachael. His dreams had vacillated through the night between counterterrorist plans and her. Their romance had been difficult given the distance between them. Now that he was moving to Washington, they would be together. He rolled toward her in the darkness, smelling her body. Her breathing was low and even. She was sleeping soundly. With his left hand, he stroked her hair gently and was fascinated by how soft and fine it was. He didn't want to disturb her and lay motionless, just enjoying her essence. Then the phone rang.

Rachael stirred at the second ring then reached to the side table for her cellphone, her only phone, "Yes?"

After a pause she said, "I'll be there."

Without moving any other part of her body, she laid the phone down and seemed to sleep again. After about thirty seconds, she groaned and pushed the covers back, and after several more seconds, she moved her legs over the side and sat upright, slightly stooped. Peter said, "Umm, what's the deal?"

She turned to him, "I have to be at Ft. Meade in two hours, at (looking at her clock), oh God, seven o'clock! Some kind of security briefing."

Peter responded, "Okay, you go get ready and I'll make you some coffee and toast. Sorry, tea and toast."

With her right hand, she caressed the side of his face in acknowledgement, "I liked you touching my hair." Then she bent over and kissed him passionately.

It only took her fifteen minutes to get dressed, which amazed Peter. He had the notion that women needed more time than men to get ready for the world each morning, but this wasn't a normal morning. He brought her tea to the bathroom then went on to fix some toast and a small dish of yogurt. She emerged energetic and fresh looking in blue jeans and a Georgetown sweatshirt.

Peter said, "Is that proper dress for the 'puzzle palace'?" The Army's Fort Meade in Maryland houses the world's most powerful and sophisticated electronic eavesdropping systems.

"Hey, he wanted me there in my PJ's, so this will do." She smiled and pecked his cheek as she went to the front door.

Peter kissed her saying, "See you later. I'll get some groceries for dinner." They both knew it was wishful thinking that they could have a normal evening together, but it was something both wanted.

On the way out the door she said, "I love you."

She drove through the center of the capital area, which wouldn't be wise any other day of the week, then up New York Avenue to Route 50, then on to I-295 north. Ft Meade was twenty miles northeast, towards Baltimore. The ride was uneventful, and she had twenty minutes to spare once she reached the main security gate. It took most of that time to clear through the security process and find the counterintelligence building.

Rachael got to the meeting on time; a few others were late. About twenty people, most of whom she knew by sight, were assembled from various military and civilian agencies. Ben Coates was her coworker from the Defense Department. Ben had called her. The briefing began at 7:40. A man from NSA began the meeting by recounting the attacks on Atlantic and United airlines. Following these attacks, NSA analyzed Internet and telephone traffic before and after the attacks, and surrounding the ransom demands for possible leads to the terrorists.

Intelligence officers at Fort Meade rely on supercomputers to analyze millions of messages and phone calls, checking keywords or word patterns. Internet messages are chopped up into small chunks called packets, and each element is reassembled at the recipient's end. These packets have headers that pick up the numeric Internet Protocol (IP) address of all the computers passed through from its originating machine to its destination. All computers connected to the Internet have unique IP numbers. Intelligence officers program the supercomputers to capture packets of information that meet certain criteria. Captured data can be reassembled to read message contents.

The purpose of this meeting was to disclose intelligence gathered at Ft. Meade. Voice communications were not helpful, but the Internet had some very high quality information. While they could only follow transmitted and received messages to a web page, the operatives in the United States had some specific information. The intelligence contained numerous email "hits" traceable to a single laptop. All of the messages were traced through wireless interfaces at Wi-Fi cafes. Starbucks located in Florida and Atlanta correlated to the timeframe when events occurred in these regions. An Army intelligence officer, Major Keys, revealed their most recent "intercepts."

He concluded, "In the last two days, we were able to trace a string of messages from Atlanta to South Carolina, then up to Boston. The most recent contacts have been from a store in Canton, Massachusetts, suburban Boston."

Boston was a major United Airlines international hub airport.

### Operation Persistent Veil

With enormous risk to stockholders, United executives agreed to participate in a plan to trap the terrorists. This decision involved the most senior members of the House and Senate Intelligence Committees agreeing to subsidize United for any long-term loss of earnings, if the plan failed. It required the President to issue an executive order, authorizing joint cooperation with military forces on the U.S. mainland, as required by the Posse Comitatus regulations, which restrict use of the military inside borders of the United States.

Technically, the operation to capture the terrorists would fall under the Department of Homeland Security, but in reality, they didn't have the assets to do this alone with the missile systems involved. The department of defense agreed to provide the sophisticated tactical assets needed to operate against the terrorists in real time.

Within the military, the most experienced counter-terrorist personnel were in the reserve structure, as a directorate under the National Guard Bureau. Peter Shields was head of this unit, which had only existed for a few days, and had no other staff members. He was called by General Simmons shortly after the briefing at Ft. Meade to begin formulating a plan to capture the terrorists and the missiles.

Beginning Friday night, the DSP (Defense Support Program) satellite constellation was redirected by the Air Force to provide geosynchronous coverage over Boston. Massive computer power was switched from other uses at DoD , NSA, CIA, Secret Service, and FBI for video surveillance and image storage. The operation required "Tier One" coverage.

The second tier coverage used medium altitude un-manned surveillance aircraft, flying in tight circles above Boston's harbor and airport. Four "Shadow" drones and their ground-based pilots were dedicated to this mission flying in racetrack patterns over Boston at 1000 feet above the airspace designated for commercial flights. Air traffic controller workloads increased while monitoring the un-manned air vehicles along with the conventional aircraft that might be in the same area. The Shadows were fitted with specialized day and night reconnaissance cameras that transmit video for locating and tracking of targets.

EC-130H Compass Call electronic eves-dropping aircraft were flown overnight from Tinker AFB to Hanscom AFB, in Bedford MA, near Boston. These aircraft are designed primarily to disrupt communications in combat, but they also have powerful "listening" and recording capability to collect any kind of radio signals.

Hanscom, the Air Force Electronic Systems Center, was located within twenty miles of Boston's Logan Airport. It would serve as the base of operations while executing the plan. An important part of the deception was an announcement by United Airlines, aired on national news on Friday and through the weekend, that it was suspending eastern air operations except in Boston, Chicago and Washington, reportedly due to traveler cancellations at the other airports. Operation "Persistent Veil" launched Saturday morning.

Without consulting with Rachael, Peter placed himself in charge of the mission to capture the terrorists. For this, he requested a Ranger Platoon from Ft Bragg to be at Hanscom on Saturday. They were to be issued NVGs (Night Vision Goggles) and equipped for "light" operations, no machine guns, mortars, tents or other gear to weight them down. He arranged air assault capability and was assigned two MH-60G Pave Hawk helicopters, which were also flown to Hanscom.

The final phase of the plan involved cooperation with Air Force Combat Command, Andrews AFB and United Airlines.

Across the Nation on Sunday Morning, United Airlines ran a full-page announcement in all major U.S. Newspapers and in their international hub cities. The headline was repeated throughout the day on television and radio news broadcasts. The announcement read:

UNITED AIRLINES CANCELS ALL FLIGHTS SUNDAY AND MONDAY. FLIGHTS WILL RESUME ON TUESDAY, OPERATING ONLY FROM BOSTON AND ALL INTERNATIONAL AIRPORTS. BOSTON WILL SERVE AS A HUB DESTINATION FOR ALL UNITED FLIGHTS ENTERING OR LEAVING THE U.S. ONCE ON U.S. SOIL, ALL PASSENGERS WILL BE RE-ROUTED ON OTHER AIRLINES...etc.

From a military and logistics viewpoint, the operation was planned flawlessly, but Peter had made one huge mistake by not consulting with Rachael before volunteering to lead the mission. He wasn't accustomed to checking with others, and Rachael was now a very significant "other" person in his life. It was one thing to plan a mission, but she did not expect him to lead it.

Majiid was furious when he received the news regarding United's decision. Did they not respect his warnings? Did they really think they can protect one airport adequately! His thoughts were clouded by rage throughout the day, but he was determined to show the Americans that he was controlling the airline, not the company executives. The missile attack would be carried out as promised.

An international flight offered added advantages because it would be carrying maximum fuel on departure, and only the largest wide-body airplanes flew over oceans. His plan was to make this a spectacular catastrophe. On Tuesday, he would certainly have the money transfer completed.

Sunday night, he met with his men and laid out the plan. It was more complex than the other attacks, but they had a good chance of success with courage and speed. On Monday, three vehicles were used to execute reconnaissance and minor purchases associated with the attack. The Internet would be used to monitor flight schedules and they would communicate in short messages using cellular phones.

The United flights originating from Boston were all scheduled during daylight hours, from about 11:00AM to the last departure at 4:40PM. Although it was riskier for an attack during daylight hours, it would be easier to identify the airline. This was important since the missile would be fired at a target of greater distance and higher altitude than before.

At about ten o'clock, three Middle Eastern men in a battered pickup truck with Florida license plates pulled a trailer with an open boat onto a dilapidated ramp in Hull, Massachusetts. The boat had visible fishing gear leaning against its sides. The location was about six miles south of Logan Airport. After launching the boat, one man stayed with the truck. With the large 225 horsepower engine, they would be in position fishing around Gallops Island in less than ten minutes.

It was a clear sunny day and already warm. The breeze and spray created by the boat was refreshing, but both men were perspiring as they scanned the area for indications of police boats or Coast Guard. They were planning to slow down behind the island until ten minutes before eleven o'clock then troll fishing lines slowly toward East Boston. United Airlines had a Boeing 747 flight to Europe departing at eleven. As they neared the island, they were pleased to see that flights were departing on runways 22L and 27, above them.

It took only a minute to deploy the fishing lines. They used lures that would attract striped bass or bluefish, and both joked nervously about catching a fish while shooting down a jet liner. As they idled out into the shipping channel toward the airport, one man began searching the tarmac with binoculars looking for the airplane. They had seen smaller United planes, but they were waiting for the "big fish." A few minutes after they reached the center of the channel, about half a mile from the airport perimeter, the man in the bow spotted the 747 taxiing toward the end of the runway, about three miles away. The big airplane was distinguishable by its upper deck bubble on the forward fuselage. The United paint scheme was also very easy to spot. In the middle of the boat, the SAM missile was ready for immediate use.

Aboard the aircraft, the pilot was communicating with air traffic controller. He was following instructions pulling near the end of runway 22L and held position. Shortly after a small commuter jet landed, he was instructed to "take the runway" and was cleared for takeoff, as the smaller plane exited. The pilot began the takeoff roll, pushing the throttles forward to the stops. All three men in the cockpit were nervous. As the aircraft rushed forward, they passed the middle of the runway heading toward the water at the end. At 140 knots IAS (indicated air speed), the pilot pulled the controller back gently as the airplane lifted from the surface. Immediately, the co-pilot pushed the landing gear lever forward helping the airplane become streamlined, accelerating faster with a "cleaner" aerodynamic profile.

They were passing through one thousand feet at 170 knots IAS when audio alarms blared "Missile! Missile! Missile!" The pilot pushed the nose over to level flight allowing the aircraft to accelerate. Missile countermeasures had been activated before takeoff, and they now depended on the aircraft to defend itself.

After the missile fired, the launcher was thrown overboard along with the fishing poles. The boat driver pushed the throttle forward and turned southeast toward Hull, at top speed. The man in the bow was too busy to watch the missile flight for the first few seconds after launch. To his horror, the aircraft was passed overhead trailing flares and a chaff cloud (millions of thin metallized glass fibers), causing the missile to explode behind the airplane. He screamed, "This is impossible!" The driver looked up and could not believe what they were seeing. Commercial aircraft do not have such systems. "This cannot be happening!"

The preceding Friday through Sunday had been extremely busy with the Air Force and United Airlines cooperating to achieve something almost impossible. The Air Force had flown both Air Force Presidential airplanes to San Antonio facilities where United repaints its aircraft. The presidential fleet consists of two specially configured Boeing 747-200B's--tail numbers 28000 and 29000, with Air Force designation VC-25. When the president was aboard either aircraft, or any Air Force aircraft, the radio call sign was "Air Force One." Principal differences between the VC-25 and the standard Boeing 747, aside from interior configuration, are the classified navigation, electronics and communications equipment. They have self-contained baggage loaders, front and aft stairs, and capability for in-flight refueling. The Air Force also provided two C-32, modified Boeing 757-200 commercial intercontinental airliners, and two C-40B's based upon the commercial Boeing 737-700 Business Jet. All the planes had automated missile defense systems.

It took Herculean effort to repaint all six aircraft to mimic United Airlines aircraft in three days. These six aircraft would fly wide oval patterns around Boston taking off and landing, simulating scheduled air traffic. The primary advantages over commercial jets and the decoys were the training of the Air Force crews and the defensive systems aboard the military planes. These fire dozens of magnesium flares, and chaff trails (millions of aluminum shards forming a cloud of metal in the sky) to defeat both heat-seeking and radar guided missiles. The 747 systems worked perfectly, causing the warhead to explode hundreds of yards behind the airplane.

Above Boston harbor, at both ends of the runway, a pair of Shadow aircraft flew remotely piloted patterns. Shadows can fly at 60 MPH for up to seven hours. Both LOS (Line-Of-Sight) and non-LOS data links provide command and sensor control. They were "flown" by pilots located on the ground at Hanscom.

When the missile alert happened, the southern-most shadows, flying at 5000 and 6000 feet respectively, sent video of the missile firing, on both infrared and visible cameras. The aircraft location and camera angles are recorded along with the video to immediately locate the target. The launch boat could be seen clearly in the video. Peter watched as the Shadows followed the boat. The northern pair was directed back to Hanscom for refueling.

The team watched the boat speed through the harbor on video monitors. It took about five minutes for the boat to reach a ramp south of Boston. One of the birds designated "Shadow one" descended to 3000 feet to get a more detailed view of the boat and the truck pulling the trailer. The second aircraft, "Shadow Two," ascended to seven thousand feet to give a wider field of view. Hanscom flight control coordinated with Logan Airport controllers to direct commercial and private airplanes out of the region. The Shadows are designed to be hard to detect from the ground.

At Hanscom, the FBI and Army Rangers prepared to assault. Aircrews finished preflight checks on the helicopters. The PAVE HAWK, MH-60G has twin engines and a stealth rotor system for special operations. The Hawk's primary role was covert insertion and extraction in all weather conditions. Ground-hugging flight avoided radar. Pilots were trained to fly with night vision goggles (NVGs). The helicopter uses radar and infrared cameras for night navigation. It can recover personnel from a hover height of 200 feet above the ground. It has multiple automatic weapons systems and missile defenses. It cruise's at of 140 knots (160 miles per hour) for over 500 miles without refueling, and can refuel in flight.

Major Shields briefed and led the assault, operating in coordination with an FBI SWAT Commander. Warrants were not required. The team was dressed in black Battle Dress Uniforms (BDUs), including body armor.

Large displays at the command center showed video from the Shadows overlaid on a geographic plot of eastern Massachusetts. The plot was a two-dimensional "map," which could be enhanced by adding or deleting roads, buildings, county and state lines. Overlaid on top of the terrain were symbols indicating the Shadow course and speed, and with split screens showing video from day and infrared cameras. At another display, analysts were tracing the route followed by the terrorists providing street address updates information on the "bad guys." GPS information was transmitted to the Pave Hawk pilots.

Peter ordered a team of ten men aboard the helicopter, while Shadows One and Two maintained visual tracking of the shooters. Men strapped in, facing out the open side doors of the aircraft. The Pave Hawk has four rappelling rope stations. Each member of the team carried an M4 assault rifle. Peter also carried a Berretta handgun and two knives. As the aircraft began moving at low altitude, he replaced his Kevlar helmet with a communications headset for intercom to the flight deck.

Flying in the metropolitan area was congested, so pilots maintain almost constant dialogue with air traffic controllers. The flight path took them south of the Boston Commons. Peter instructed them to remain at 1500 feet altitude, five miles behind the truck. He then replaced his helmet and used the handset from the PRC-64A HF radio to call Hanscom control, "Hanscom, this is Striker One, over."

"Go ahead Striker One, this is Hanscom, over."

"Hanscom, what is our position relative to the boat crew? Over."

Hanscom controller's response, "Striker One, be advised you are leaving Hanscom controlled airspace and bogey is twelve miles LOS (line of site) ahead. Your pilot is getting flight vector instructions from Hanscom traffic control, over."

Peter replied, "Roger Hanscom. Instruct ATC (Air Traffic Control) to maintain ten miles separation from Shadow One, over."

"Understood Striker One. Maintain ten miles separation. Be advised that at present vectors and speed, you should be at rally point with bogey in under three minutes, over."

"Roger, out."

The boat was tied to the trailer and the men sped away from the ramp. Something had gone wrong. They had attacked the United airplane from the best possible angle, yet missed the target. They were yelling at each other and screaming curses before slowing down to the speed limit. They had all seen the cascading smoke trails from the airplane underbelly. The missile had followed one and detonated hundreds of meters behind the plane.

The driver spoke in rapid hi-pitched language, barely able to steer with flailing hands. The airplane had countermeasures installed! Even though he had been instructed to avoid communications, he told the man next to him to use his cellular phone. At the house in Canton, Majiid had been watching the television news stations, expecting to see the news break at any time announcing the destruction of the United aircraft. When his phone rang, he sensed a blunder and cursed when answering. The man explained what happened, and Majiid instructed him to not stop at the safe house. Immediately after disconnecting, he placed a call to his handler.

In Washington, Rachael was in the Army Operations Center at the Pentagon with several military and intelligence agency officers. Everyone was fixated on the GIS topographical display from Hanscom. The aircraft had triangular blue symbols and the terrorist truck was indicated by a red rectangle. On a separate display, they saw the live video from Shadow One. It was vital to maintain visual contact with the truck. The room was silent. Rachael knew Peter was leading the pursuit team against her wishes. She felt uneasy that he still volunteered for dangerous assignments. The military was conflicting with their lives. She was both fearful for him and questioning the legitimacy of their relationship. He might not value her enough to give up his adventures.

The driver continued south on I-93, changing to Route 3 at Braintree, heading for Cape Cod. Reaching Plymouth, he steered east briefly on Route 44 then transitioned onto Route 3A, North. This was the coastal road that meanders through several towns en route back to Boston. Aerial tracking was difficult in the narrow streets and trees canopy. The seacoast towns are crowded in the summer, and the traffic was dense. It was difficult to spot the truck from the air with many boats in tow. Meanwhile, men in the truck received a cellphone call with instructions.

As they drove into South Duxbury, there were small tree-lined side roads. Clear vision became difficult from Shadow One. On a long stretch of narrow road, the truck stopped abruptly and all the men jumped out, disconnecting the trailer. The process took half a minute, then the truck did a three-point turn back toward the main route north. The controllers at Hanscom almost lost contact before they realized the boat was gone. They could not tell that two men had also left the truck under the tree cover. Shadow Two investigated the road, with no luck.

The truck turned north again on 3A into Duxbury. The historic town has frequent summer festivals and tourist events. Entering Miles Standish State Park, the driver parked and ran into an evergreen shrouded path on a high bluff leading to the coast. He discarded his fisherman's sweatshirt and ball cap. If anyone had seen him, he would be difficult to recognize in a faded tee shirt. He wandered for a few moments, pretending to read the historic markers with other sightseers, then walked back toward the parking lot. He changed course under the trees along one of the trails through the nearby woods, heading for cliffs overlooking the shore.

At Hanscom, they lost track of the driver. Local police were alerted to be watching for suspicious-looking Middle Eastern men.

Hanscom radioed to the Strike team. "Striker One, be advised that the target has escaped. You are instructed to return to base, over"

Peter couldn't believe it. "Hanscom, say again, over."

The order was repeated and the they returned to base. After debriefing, he rode with another officer to the BOQ to shower and put on a clean uniform. He was bewildered and upset, but the mission was over.

That afternoon, United Airlines sent the following email:

Apostles of Islam. United Airlines will immediately transfer $100 million to your account. Please advise routing information.

Signed: Harold Levine, VP, General Council, United Airlines.

If there had ever been any doubt about the sincerity of the threat from the Islamic fanatics, the failed missile launch removed it.

That evening, another message was sent to United:

"To the owner of United Airlines,

Greetings again from the Apostles of Islam. We are a forgiving and peace-loving people. You will have until 1200 tomorrow, EDT to transfer 200 millions dollars, as the cost of a missile lost in your foolish attempt to deceive us. We will send a message 1145 hours tomorrow with instruction. If you attempt such tricks again, you will only regret it more deeply."

The following day, the instructions were executed at twelve o'clock.

### Peter Returns

Peter contacted air operations and arranged a seat on a C21 jet to Andrews AFB the next night. He had spoken to Rachael the night before after a quick meal at the officers' club. The call had been brief, lacking the passion-laden words he couldn't muster after the day's failure. He spent most of the night awake, alone, sober and annoyed. The plan should have succeeded.

As the small jet taxied to the terminal at Andrews, he saw her standing in front of the terminal. With the wind blowing through her long silky brown hair, he felt a rush of emotion. He wasn't used to failure and the demons of a past mission had been contaminating his consciousness. These memories evaporated as soon as he saw her.

He was the third person to exit, and she was waiting at the bottom of the ladder with a smile. Touching the ground, he hesitated momentarily, but Rachael came to him and they embraced for several seconds. His fears melted away. She held him until he relaxed. His duffle bag had been set beside him, and he picked it up with one hand as they walked away with arms around each other. She understood his frustration, but she also understood his uneasiness in their relationship. This was the first time since they became romantically involved that they had shared a major disappointment for either of them.

She drove on their way back to her townhouse. It took about forty minutes traveling north on I-495, then south into Georgetown along Rt50. Rachael was the first to broach the subject, "Peter, we need to talk about what went wrong in Boston."

"I know. It's just like they found out that we were following them."

She said, "I'm still trying to sort this out, but it doesn't sound right. They behaved like they didn't know you were tracking them and then were alerted somehow."

"You know Rachael, the UAVs are hard to detect, and we were standing off ten miles. They couldn't have seen us."

"I know."

It was about 8:30PM when they parked at her place. Both were famished. Georgetown had many good restaurants Nearby. They left his bag in the car and walked to a small Italian restaurant featuring different specials each night. They were still learning about each other, and intimate dining was a perfect venue. It was expensive by Peter's standards, but he wouldn't let her pay.

They ordered Classico wine and enjoyed a glass before mellowing into more private dialogue. Peter started by contrasting the military roles of the active Army, reserves and the National Guard. A year earlier, he was "hibernating" on a golf course near Chicago after more than a decade of special operations assignments, when he volunteered for recall to active duty to deal with terrorists attacking the city. They met there under stressful circumstances. After the terrorists were stopped, they suffered through wounds and rehabilitation together, and a special bond developed. Even if it had not progressed to romance, they both knew they would be spiritually linked forever.

Peter had been disillusioned by the Army before Chicago, but reconciled his feelings by fighting an enemy that was planning to kill masses of American civilians. As an idealist, this brought him back to the realization that he belonged in the military. Recovered from his wounds, he decided to stay on active duty. He had spent six months assigned to the Army Reserves, stationed with the Illinois National Guard, while undergoing therapy for a severely injured arm and leg. Rachael had survived a nuclear bomb blast that required equal recovery time. Both were national heroes, yet neither took advantage of their status.

Peter said, "You know. Being in that helicopter, ready to get the bad guys, I really felt at home again. In the guard assignment back in Illinois, I felt pretty useless."

"So, what are you saying? Are you planning to go back on active duty again in special ops?"

"I don't know, I just know that I'm not good at pushing paper around. On the other hand, there's us. I mean, well...", but before he could finish, she interrupted.

"I know what you mean." She gripped his hand on the table and their eyes were fixed on each other.

He said. "You know, I love you."

"I know." She also knew that he would never be able to leave the Army to be with her, and she would not be a camp follower. This dilemma overshadowed their relationship.

They had a quiet dinner and walked back to her apartment arm in arm. Neither spoke much. Peter was conflicted, having to decide between two loves. That night, he forgot it all as they made love, which continued into the morning hours.

### Rachael's Theory

Both were up for work by six o'clock in the morning. Peter thought about moving to Ft Myer in Arlington, Virginia, but could not find the words to tell her. Rachael got to the bathroom first, so he went to the kitchen to brew her tea and make some coffee. He couldn't find anything he wanted for breakfast in the refrigerator. He brought her tea upstairs and set the cup on the bathroom vanity, then turned on the shower. As he disrobed, Rachael wrapped both arms around his chest from behind and kissed his neck. He took her hands and kissed both palms before stepping into the stream. He joined her downstairs in the kitchen twenty minutes later, dressed in his utility uniform,.

Sitting at her small table, Rachael looked smart in her business suit. Peter sat across from her, piling cream cheese on his bagel, hoping it would keep him satisfied for a few hours anyway. She had a serious expression when she said, "You know. I've given some thought to Boston and have a scary theory."

"Shoot."

"You have to wonder, did someone warn them?"

"Whoa, these guys don't have any friends on our side."

"No, but it just bugs me that they changed course for no reason. I mean, they dumped the boat and fled as though they knew they were being tracked. If they planned to evade, wouldn[t they do it sooner?. I mean. Why risk interception for so long? I can't help thinking, they headed for the coast after being told we were following them."

He said, "We had lots of people involved."

"Yeah, but not many knew how you were tracking them. And even so, why did they get spooked in the middle of a chase. There was plenty of time to alert them before shooting the missile."

Peter looked at her and went silent for a few moments of contemplation, then said, "I don't know."

He placed his plate in the sink and kissed her, then walked to the front door, leaving for work. He knew she was right.

A few moments later, Rachael washed the dishes and left for work. She wanted to get on line with her intelligence peers to start checking her suspicions.

Forty minutes later, she was at her secure terminal in the Pentagon sending emails to trusted acquaintances.

### Move to Long Island

Majiid was up late into the night picking up his men one at a time. It was safer to transport each one back to the safe house rather than create more suspicion with an overcrowded pickup full of Middle Eastern men. By 11:45AM, he was sitting at Starbuck's for the second time, sending wire transfer instructions to United's attorney. When finished, he drove back to the safe house for a nap, where he would dream about his share of the ransom.

His slumber lasted less than an hour. He was awakened when one of his men arrived with a rental truck. Their next target was to be a foreign air carrier in the U.S. He was to transport the remaining missiles to another safe house on Long Island and await further instructions. He would contact his handler once they arrived. He admired the plan, which was making them all wealthy, and hurt the American economy. An international attack would have even greater impact. Allah was favoring them.

He rolled from his bed and went to the single bathroom to shower, while the others began loading the truck. In less than an hour everything was loaded and the drivers of each vehicle were given directions to Jericho, New York. It wasn't their final location, but they would get more directions as they got closer to the actual location. They departed at ten-minute intervals.

Majiid was the last to leave, driving in an old Chevrolet Suburban truck.

### The Hunch

Rachael sent an email message to Hale Warner, Deputy Director of National Intelligence at the NSA from her secure office computer,. The primary mission of the National Security Agency was the ability to intercept and decipher secret communications of foreign adversaries while protecting U.S. communications. The techniques used to intercept messages and the persistence of coverage involves some of the most expensive and highly classified systems in government. She knew that NSA had monitored communications during the operation in Boston.

She then sent a message to Brigadier General Bridgette LeMasters, Deputy Commanding General at the Army Intelligence and Security Command (INSCOM), which had personnel on location at Hanscom and monitored the operation closely.

Between NSA and INSCOM, Rachael hoped they might have recorded cellphone calls to the terrorists. She knew that both agencies would communicate with the other agencies. Since September 11, 2001, all government agencies must share certain information and several were involved at Hanscom. Cooperation took time, and there was resistance, but it did ultimately happen. She had met both people at different times, and was friends with Hale Warner.

Rachael answered routine email before taking a walk from her office down the huge sloping corridors to the first floor canteen, which had been improved in 2004 with a new contract signed with McDonald's, Pizza Hut and Taco Bell to open restaurants inside the Pentagon, feeding its 23,000 employees. She liked to clear her mind with a warm cup of tea, but it was the walk, more than anything, that allowed her to refresh her mind periodically.

She found herself lingering on the first floor in front of the big bulletin board looking at postings for resort packages that others had arranged but could not use. She thought about Peter, maybe a honeymoon, but the image was clouded with emotion. Did she really love him, or was there some mesmerizing force at work, inflated by the events in Chicago? Maybe he would always be conflicted with his horrendous background. Did this create a barrier that would never completely dissolve? Without the crisis that brought them together, were they really compatible?

### King Cobra

At exactly 1300 hours in Washington, Steven K. Sayar, Assistant to the President for National Security Affairs, received an email message as follows:

Dear Mr. Sayar,

As the advisor to your president, you have a duty to protect the people of your country. Most recently, your economic security has been threatened by Muslim brothers destroying your commercial aircraft and killing the people. For your information, I am their leader. You should know that many more missiles are in your country and will be used shortly to kill even more Americans. I am offering you the chance to protect your people and also protect confidence in your airplane transportation industry. To prove my capability, I will give you the exact location and the exact time for the next attack, one hour beforehand. Once you are convinced, I will give you the location of all remaining missiles and all of these men who use them, for $1 billion dollars. This will end the destruction forever. If you refuse, all remaining missiles will be used to shoot the planes and there will not be the possibility of any more ransoms. Please send to me your acceptance of these terms by 0800 tomorrow morning, your time zone.

Allah be praised,

King Cobra

Steve Sayar read the message several times. If he understood it correctly, there was a massive ransom demanded in exchange for the missiles and the terrorists. He hurried to send a flash message to all members of the National Security Council to meet at 1500. The President would chair the National Security Council. In addition to Sayar, its regular attendees include the Vice President, the Secretary of State, Secretary of Homeland Security, the Secretary of the Treasury, the Secretary of Defense with the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and the Director of the CIA. The Chief of Staff to the President, Counsel to the President, and the Assistant to the President for Economic Policy are also invited to attend any NSC meeting. The Attorney General was invited to this emergency meeting, as was the DDO of the CIA, Will Lawrence, who had recommended Sayar for his position. The Secretary of Defense invited Lt. General John Simmons, G2, to attend.

Rachael was aware that her boss was called away to an emergency meeting at the White House and decided to stay in the office until he returned. Prepared for a long night, she called Peter to explain that she might be late and not to wait for her before eating supper. Peter related that he was also delayed and that he would not eat without her. Their courtship was still young.

General Simmons returned to the Pentagon around 6:30 stopping at her office. "Rachael, I'm glad you're still here. Let me hang up my coat and then we can talk." Simmons had lived by Army rules for over thirty years and was starting to contemplate life in retirement as a civilian. Working with his civilian staff helped him soften his stiff demeanor. He came back to her office without his uniform coat and tie.

He sat down opposite her desk. "Wow. It was quite an assembly of folks. It was the whole National Council and a bunch of three-letter codes."

"Can you tell me what the crisis was?"

"Yeah. The Security Advisor had a message from someone called 'King Cobra' wanting a billion dollars to give up the missiles."

She looked skeptical. "Is it some hoax?"

"Well, we'll find out. He says he's gonna give up one missiles and the shooters tomorrow as a gesture. If it's true, it's gotta be real."

"You mean this guy, this 'Cobra', is really claiming he'll give up a missile? That seems preposterous."

"Yeah, well. We've got to take him serious just in case he's for real. It's going to be some kind of show if it is. He's giving us an hour advanced notice, and we'll have to stop them from shooting...and we don't know where we'll need to be."

"What's our role?"

"Nothing for now. There's going to be messages sent out to all the agencies and states to be on alert. They'll have to deal with it, where ever these guys show up."

"What do people think? Is he for real?"

"Like I said. The administration is treating it that way. The plan's to use every all intel assets to capture "King Cobra. If he turns out to be real, the President agreed to pay the ransom and he'll brief the leaders of congress at a breakfast meeting with him and the National Security Advisor."

She nodded. "So, the funds and communications will be tracked?"

"That's the plan."

"I guess we don't have any choice. Any idea where this Cobra guy is? I'm guessing not in the states."

"The agencies are trying to track him, but it's not easy. They'll focus on the internet, tracing messages from the guy. The Treasury and Secret Service are working through the night for cooperation with the international bankers to trace electronic transfers. They have some theories and models based on routings done in the past. Others will monitor fax and telephone comms, and there are some contingencies. But, the bottom line is that the ransom will be paid."

### Rachael Attacked

It was half an hour before she could start heading home. The metro station at the Pentagon was no longer crowded, and trains ran on twenty-minute intervals by the time she got to the platform. The underground station was immense and she was the only person on the northbound side of the track, quite lonely. As she waited near the side of the platform, she felt a periodic rush of air as wind gusts above ground affected air pressure in the train tunnels. The swirling air created an eerie setting. She felt that someone was nearby, yet there was no one on the platform. For comfort, she called Peter's cellphone. "Hi. Where are you?"

"I'm almost at your place. What's up?"

"Oh nothing, I just wanted to talk. The Metro station is lonely this time of night. I'm the only one here. It's a little creepy."

"You want me to come get you?"

"Naw. It's just later than normal. I'll be okay. Just start something for dinner, I'm staring." The lighted floor tiles at the edge of the platform began flashing, indicating an approaching train.

"Are you sure you're all right? You sound a little scared"

"I'll be okay. See you in fifteen minutes."

When the blue line train arrived, she stepped aboard and was the only person in the rail car as it departed the station, heading for Arlington Cemetery and Georgetown beyond.

After parking, Peter was concerned and decided to walk down to meet her. He jogged in the cooled night air to the Foggy Bottom Metro Station. Like Pentagon Station, the underground platform was large and lonely. He was relieved as the train approached, standing just behind the turnstiles. There was no one else departing the train with her. As she came up the escalator and saw him standing there, she felt relieved, but it bothered her to think her nerves were edgy. Passing through the gate, she threw her arms around his neck and shivered.

He kissed her. "Hey, why the fright?"

"I don't know. Maybe it's just the short days and cold. Let's go home."

.

She calmed down in seconds and took a tissue from her purse to wipe her eyes. They walked arm in arm up the down 23rd street, stopping at a Thai restaurant for take-out food. Once home, they had a quiet dinner while she told him about her inquiries and the meeting with General Simmons.

She told him about the message from the "Cobra" and the ransom plan. "Tomorrow could be a big break, if they do capture the missiles, but I still think it's a long shot." Instinctively, she feared he would be involved somehow.

"I don't know, Rachael, is it that simple? Do all two-bit terrorists now become extortionists? This still doesn't make a lot of sense."

"I know. I started an investigation to trace communications during your chase. I don't think we know all the intricacies yet."

That night, they shared an impassioned bed, like lovers on the eve of destruction. They both knew the future contained uncertainty. It was past midnight when they fell asleep in each other's arms.

Rachael was asleep in minutes, but Peter rested for almost an hour and began dozing when something alerted him. He was laying on his right side, facing Rachael, but rolled quietly onto his back to hear more clearly. Lying still, he heard nothing alarming, yet something had disturbed him and he trusted his instincts. As he pulled down the sheet slowly, he felt a sensation of air moving through the room. Rachael's townhouse had both bedrooms upstairs. He rolled into a seated position on the side of the bed, and could see the door moving wider from air coming up the stairway. The AC system was off, so the only source was an open window or door, yet the windows and doors were closed and locked before they moved upstairs for the night.

Letting her sleep, he put his weight on his feet and slowly pulled on his pants. Once balanced, he moved to the doorway peering down the stairs and listening. He heard muted whispers from the kitchen, then cautious footsteps. Streetlamps along the street outside gave faint illumination of the entry and living room below. The building had been built in the late 1800's and it was impossible to walk without boards creaking, but he moved closer to the edge of the stairway slowly, spreading his weight evenly. He left the lights off. His gun was locked in a case in his duffle bag inside the closet, and he couldn't risk trying to get it.

Crouching near the top of the stairs, he saw two shadows move to the bottom step. The lead man carried something in his hand. He was big, over six feet and broad shouldered. The second man was short, but heavier. They moved like street thugs. Peter crouched low in the darkness as they came up. The top stair landing had a small rug with a rubber matt under it, but Peter didn't trust the footing. While the man crept slowly up the first steps, Peter curled his toes and pulled the rug behind him. The wood floors provided better traction for his bare feet. There were fifteen steps from the first to second floor. Peter had counted them from habit. As the first intruder crept past the forth step, the fat one followed slowly. Both gripped the handrail.

Peter hoped Rachael remained asleep. As the lead man stepped on the tenth step, his eyes were level with the landing. Peter was poised low with his feet set like a sprinter waiting for the starting gun. He leapt when the man was mid-stride, landing his head and shoulders in the invader's upper body, using his forearm to keep the weapon out of play. Off balance, the man jerked backward falling into the one behind. Peter's body was protected by the bodies below him as they careened down the wooden stairs. When all three came to rest at the bottom, Peter grasped the right forearm of the taller man, who had a Bowie knife. He was able to dislodge it, slamming the man's wrist on the wall, but unable to recover it. Instead, he rolled off the two bodies and into fighting position.

The tall man wasn't injured badly, but the man below had taken the weight of two men as he crashed backward down the stairs. He was still. The bigger man pushed off his immobile companion and Peter kicked him under his chin before he gained his balance. The attacker fell back, limp on top of his accomplice.

He waited a few seconds, the checked vital signs of both men. Rachael turned on the lights. She had a terrified look on her face when Peter yelled. "Rachael, call the police! She looked stunned. "Rachael, look at me! Call nine-one-one immediately! Tell them that there are two intruders down. Medical help is required."

She ran back into the room and used her cellphone, urging the police to hurry. She returned to the top of the stairs and saw the two bodies on the floor, but Peter was missing. She yelled, "Peter!"

"Rachael, it's okay, I'm just in the kitchen checking the rest of the house."

She felt relieved when he came back into view. He said, "I closed the window and re-locked the door. We'll be okay until the police arrive. Go back into the room and get dressed. There will be a bunch of cops here soon."

She did nothing as Peter checked the men again for vital signs. He wasn't sure the bottom man had a pulse. The top man had a weak pulse, but might have a broken neck. Peter stepped over them and retrieved the knife from between the bodies. He expected them to have other weapons, but he'd let the police search.

His immediate thought was of Rachael, still standing immobile at the top of the stairs. He climbed to her and gently turned her around and led her back into the bedroom. She stammered, "Who, wha... what are they doing here?"

Peter sat her on the bed, "Honey. Rachael. Look at me. look at me! Get Dressed. The police will be here soon. We'll figure this out when they get here."

He had been crouching in front of her and stood slowly to go back down the stairs, but she wrapped her arms around his waist tightly. She was shaking. Peter stroked her hair and pulled her arms away gently, saying, "Sweetheart, I have to go downstairs and watch over those guys, and meet the police. I won't let anyone hurt you, just stay sitting here."

He kissed the top of her head, then turned and walked toward the stairs. Looking below as he descended, he was struck by how young the men were, in their late teens or early twenties. The one on the bottom was probably dead and the other might be paralyzed if he survived long enough for medical help. Stepping across them at the bottom of the stairs, he walked to the front window and saw several sets of red and blue strobe lights driving in his direction. There were no sirens needed this early in the morning.

Opening the front door, he signaled the officers. He was wearing utility pants and an OD tee-shirt. The police cars stopped a few doors away and several officers stepped out in unison with hands on their sidearms. Peter maintained his position, where he could see both men and usher the police inside.

Over the next few hours the intruders were taken away in an ambulance under guard. One was dead, but he would be transported to the Georgetown Medical complex for death certification. The second man was strapped to a backboard with a neck brace, still unconscious. The police had searched their pockets and found a metro map and specific instructions to Rachael's apartment. They also found $500 on both of them.

Peter talked with the police lieutenant in charge of the scene, while Rachael stayed in the kitchen, having tea. It was daylight when the police and medical personnel departed, leaving them alone again.

"What's going on Peter, I heard some of the talking, but...what happened tonight?" She asked.

Sitting down at the dinette with her, he took one hand and moved close when answering, "Rachael, it looks like these were street punks from Southeast DC. They had some cash and directions to your house. Sweetheart, these thugs were probably hired to kill you." He knew this news would unnerve her, but she had to know the truth.

"Kill me, why?"

"You must have scared someone enough to want you dead. You need to think about anyone who could be your enemy."

She looked at him with watery eyes, "Peter. I--I don't have any enemies, I'm not like that. You know that."

He cradled her head and decided to let the dialogue end.

### Tokens

The evening before, Hasan Abd al-Majiid and his caravan rendezvoused at a shopping center in South Valley Stream, NY, near JFK Airport. From there, the vehicles followed Majiid to a nearby house. A local fundamentalist group living in New York had arranged everything. That night, he located an Internet café and received final instructions for the morning's attack.

In the morning, three men drove two miles to Rockaway Community Park across Jamaica Bay from Kennedy Airport. The park was closed, but they cut the lock on the gate and drove through the woods to the water's edge, facing the airport. The park police were not on duty. There were dozens of transatlantic flights landing at JFK between six and eight in the morning. Their instructions required timing. They were to shoot the missile at the first large airliner to fly overhead after 0700. They were positioned at the water's edge behind native brush, counting down the minutes.

At seven, a man named Halim informed his companions to be patient. He had binoculars to help identify the aircraft, and to ensure no mid-east airliners were targeted. He scanned overhead then rotated toward the airport, and saw the mast of a ship in the bottom of his view. Lowering his glasses, he was shocked to see a Coast Guard cutter less than half a mile away steaming toward their location. He could also see that the forward gun mount was manned and heard orders being given.

Panic started to set in as he ordered the men back to the delivery van, but as they started to run, police with assault rifles surrounded them.

In Washington, Rachael called her office and left a message that she might not be coming in today, but by ten o'clock, Peter convinced her that she needed to get back to her routine and it was worse to stay at home. Sweetheart, you'll go nuts staying here. I'll drive you to work.

He planned to stay in the building all day, in case she needed to leave. She would not use the Metro again. En route across Key Bridge he turned the radio to WMAL 6:30AM news. Breaking news said terrorists were captured with a missile launcher in New York.

She exclaimed, Did you hear that? They go the guys!"

"Yeah. The trap worked!"

Both of them felt their pulses race. Rachael could not wait to get into the office for full details, and Peter would visit his contacts in the Operations Center.

Parking in the east lot meant a ten-minute walk before Rachael was at her office. There was a stack of pink message forms handed to her by the office assistant as she entered. Reading them, she elected to return Hale Warner's call first.

He answered, "Warner."

"Hale, its Rachael."

Before she could continue, he said, "Rachael! I heard about your attack, are you okay?"

"Yes, Hale, I'm fine. Thanks."

"Wow! The news has been unbelievable today, first with your attack, and then with the missile captured in New York."

"Yeah, I'm terrified and elated at the same time!" She was trying to minimize the fear still wracking her.

"Rachael, we need to meet. I want to tell you some things about your inquiry yesterday, but I need to do it face to face. How about lunch?"

"Okay, where?"

"Someplace open with background noise, how about fast food in the Pentagon Atrium, my treat, at one o'clock?"

"Yes, fine. But you're coming to me, so my treat. I'll show you how to spend big!"

Hale would use the metro system, and they'd meet at the Atrium in about an hour. The atrium is located in the open center of the Pentagon and was only accessible to employees of the Department of Defense, certain government officials, and their guests. It was open to the air traffic noise from Reagan National Airport and I-395; coupled with the noise from all the people, it provided adequate background for a private discussion.

Before leaving her office she left a voicemail message on Peter's cellphone. Hale was waiting at the bottom of the first-floor ramp. They shook hands, which would have been a hug in a more social environment. After selecting salads from the deli counter, she led the way to an outer table in some shade, away from everyone. The Atrium would have been crowded earlier, but it was late by military standards.

After seating she said, "Well, you've really got me intrigued with this clandestine meeting stuff. What gives?"

"Rachael, I don't have a complete set of facts yet, but there's some serious questions about our national security." He took a mouthful of chicken Caesar salad.

"Tell me what you mean, Hale?"

"Okay, we've pieced together enough SIGINT to know there were several phone calls involving at least three individuals that could have alerted the terrorists in Boston that they were being tracked from the air. The diction was rushed, probably because whoever started the chain of calls learned of the mission after it was underway. Bam, Bam, Bam, phone calls were blasting together quickly for a few minutes, and then ended. We used the time-stamped video from the drones and watched the reaction of the truck."

She exhaled, "So they were warned?"

"Yeah, looks like it."

"Who made the first call? Who's on the inside with this crap?"

"Honestly, Rachael, we don't know yet. It could be anyone who knew what we were doing, when we were doing it -- except you and me of course."

They finished their lunch and went back to work. Rachael thanked Hale and knew he was concerned for her. She had asked a question that could make someone very nervous. Maybe it already had.

### Payoff

Majiid and his three remaining followers were watching the television awaiting news that a plane was shot down at Kennedy Airport. The doors and windows of the house were opened so they could hear the crash and watch the billowing smoke. If they were lucky, the crash would cause further damage on the ground. By seven thirty, they were concerned that nothing had happened yet. There were no calls indicating a problem, so there should have been breaking news. He was perplexed when his phone vibrated. Fearful of failure, he answered hurriedly. It was a brief call from his handler, telling him that he had information from a secret source that his men had been captured. He told Majiid to vacate the house immediately, and move to the second location, known only to Majiid and his leader. They hurried to collect their belongings and rendezvous at the shopping center as before. It took several minutes to leave the house with staggered departures. Minutes later, Steven Sayar received instructions for wiring the ransom to the King Cobra.

Managed by the Secretary of the Treasury, a billion dollars were transferred to the First Bank of Venezuela as instructed. Diplomatically, Venezuela never cooperated, but pressure about boycotting oil had been applied through the embassy hours earlier. The government had reluctantly agreed to cooperate if funds were channeled through their banks. The Secret Service advised the diplomatic corps that the funds would likely be separated into smaller "packets" to further complicate and frustrate their attempts to isolate the ending account. Both State and Treasury personnel had worked through the night to secure cooperation with as many countries as possible, sometimes using outrageous commitments or threats of retribution. By separating funds into smaller parcels, the chances of following one or more to the final account improved.

Known only to the NSA within the intelligence community, they were watching for any signs of intervention by U.S. personnel. There was growing concern by Hale Warner that the terrorist known as King Cobra was either a U.S. official or had the cooperation of someone in government. In the trail to Cobra, they might net a traitor, but contrary to popular belief, electronic bank transfers can be slow. Some international banks insist on "holding funds" for up to 48 working hours before transferring to another bank. This "float" allows the bank to accumulate interest on the funds, which would amount to almost $100,000 per day, depending on their rates. Weeks could pass before the money arrived at the final account.

Shortly after the process began, Steven Sayar sent a message to "King Cobra" notifying him of the transfer information and asking for the location of the missiles and terrorists as promised. The response was received quickly.

Dear Mr. Sayar,

Thank you for information regarding the money to my account. For my part, here is the answer. Now some men and the missiles are traveling to a new location farther from the New York City. It is a house in the city called East Moriches at address, 1407 Briana Ct. They will be there today awaiting my orders. You can capture them, but they are well armed and will fight to death.

Allah be praised,

King Cobra

### Capture Team

At NSA, Hale Warner had a team of people and technology sorting through recorded phone discussions to create a clear picture of events in Boston. With hundreds of thousands of calls happening during the chase period, it would take several days of interpretation and story-boarding. Using super-computer technology and automated analysis in several languages, they were making good progress. Privately, he was worried that there might be some connection between Rachael's request and the attempt on her life the night before. If so, he might nullify the threat by announcing across security channels that he was pursuing it, but this could compromise the ability to capture the individuals. He decided to keep his search secret within the Security Council for a few days.

At five o'clock in the afternoon, Peter returned to Rachael's office. "Hi babe, ready to go home?

She was, but nervous. "Yeah, I guess I can't hide here forever." She would be dead today if Peter had not been in the house.

On the way home, the radio news was saturated with reports about the capture of a small group of terrorists with a missile near Kennedy Airport. Rachael turned it off. "Peter. The guys in my house...they weren't professionals, were they?

"Not a chance, Rachael."

"I just don't get it. Why would someone hire street punks?"

He had been thinking about it all day. "I can think of a couple reasons. Whoever hired these guys isn't a professional criminal, or someone just panicked and wanted you out of the way fast. Maybe both."

"Hale thinks it's probably someone in Government. When I asked a couple friends to check about warning the guys in Boston, he thinks is spooked someone."

"Could be. I'll keep my gun out for a while at night."

"Should I go away?"

"I'd feel better if you stayed by me."

"Yeah. Me too. I feel safe with you."

He didn't respond, thinking about how much she meant to him. He worried that he couldn't be with her all the time. He said, "Look, what you're saying makes sense. The men hired to attack you had specific directions. It wasn't planned too far in advance because he didn't know about me. I can't protect you all the time. How would you feel about going away for a long vacation until this is solved?"

"Peter, I'm over being scared, now I'm mad. Not so mad that I can't think straight, but mad enough to want to help find the creep. He's helped kill all those airline passengers. I don't want to go away. I want to fight!"

"I had a feeling you'd say that, but you need to be extra careful. You may still be in danger."

"I don't think so. At this point, others are investigating my supposition. There are lots of people looking for him now. Killing me accomplishes nothing."

"Okay, but he could be vindictive. He may try again just because he's mad at you for starting a witch hunt."

"Fine, but I'm just going to try even harder to catch him."

They had a better night than he had expected and slept for several hours. In the morning, he dropped her at the Pentagon, before driving to the National Guard Bureau in Arlington. Rachael was back in fighting form, dressed smart and focused on finding a traitor.

When Peter got to his cubical at the NGB building, there was a message telling him to see Major General White, NGB-J3, Deputy Chief of the National Guard for all domestic operations. This office handles every mission assigned to the ARNG for domestic aide and to help law enforcement. Peter reported down the hall.

There was a civilian whom he didn't recognize inside the General's office,. General White said, "Major Shields, meet Deputy Director Lutz of the FBI. Any moment now we'll be joined by the National Security Advisor." The General offered Peter a cup of coffee, which he accepted, black.

A few minutes later Steven Sayar joined them. Peter recognized the President's Security Advisor from television coverage. Sayar said, "Thank you, General for organizing this meeting on short notice. I think you'll all appreciate the urgency as I explain things."

White said, "Let me introduce Director James Lutz, whom I think you know, and Major Peter Shields, our Special Operations Director (not an accurate title)."

Hands were shaken, and then Sayar got right to work. "Gentlemen, what I'm about to tell you has to do with the group calling itself the 'Apostles of Islam'. They are responsible for the attacks on our civilian aircraft. We have been given the exact location of the remaining SAM missiles and the terrorists on Long Island, and we need to catch them quickly before they move again."

"I called General White because we don't have time to sort out the protocol issues between agencies, and I knew the Guard and FBI should work together to take on these guys."

Lutz interjected, "Mr. Sayar, the FBI has worked with General White in the past and I'm not the kind of guy to get stuck on protocol. I think the right role for law enforcement is to exercise judicial prerogatives, but I don't want to expand that to mean we have the best resources and personnel to take on trained fanatics with SAM missiles and assault weapons."

Peter liked Lutz, the man was a pragmatist and a team player.

Sayar went on, "That's great Jim. Anyway, the rags are located in a remote dunes area of outer Long Island. It's pretty remote, which has pluses and minuses. It's isolated, but the open sand dunes make surprise difficult. (Sayar was an ex-Navy man who understood the military). Since this is not technically a military attack, we can't just drop a smart bomb, we need to function within the law.

"I asked to meet with you and General White because the administration thinks this is best handled through the National Guard, under direction of the NY Governor instead of the Defense Department. There may be legal conflicts with the DoD on U.S. soil. On the other hand, we don't want a repeat of Waco or Ruby Ridge."

Lutz bristled with the citations, but Federal law enforcement agencies didn't have a great success record in armed confrontations.

White responded, "Okay. Steve. It sounds like you're pretty positive about the location and these guys are all together for plucking?"

"Yes, General, we have good intel. They're hunkered down waiting for orders."

General White went on, "Peter, what's your take on this? How tough will it be to get these guys?"

"General, it depends on a lot of things, but it sounds achievable from what I've hearing, if intel is correct. I need to see the target layout and estimate the opfor (opposing force), but I we should reconnoiter and FBI SWAT make the bust. We provide backup. Mr. Sayar, how much time do we have to prep?"

"Major, we need to strike before tomorrow morning. We can't depend on them staying in this location for long."

Peter responded, "Okay. Not much time; a lot will be improvised, which is dangerous. Mr. Lutz. What are the rules of engagement in circumstances like this?"

Lutz responded, "If the bad guys are there, I'm hereby declaring the scene hostile, and we won't risk getting any officers killed through formalities like warrants. Let's surround the building and give them a chance to surrender. The nation deserves results, and no one'll morn a bunch of dead terrorists."

Peter said, "Okay, General. I need to get stuff coming together fast."

"Peter, it's your show with Director Lutz, I'm notifying all the DCSs (Deputy Chiefs) to provide whatever resources and assistance you want. You're dismissed to get this going."

All stood, but Sayar delayed his departure from the General's office.

Peter needed to rush things. He asked Lutz to make arrangements with the New York FBI office to have their SWAT team mobilized by nightfall. He would rely on Jim for all FBI liaisons. He then crafted a three-star email message to the New York Governor's TAG (Adjutant General) to arrange the equipment and personnel for a night mission, asking to have the DCSOPS, Deputy Chief of Staff Operations, contact him by cellphone. The message went out under General White's signature. He sent a separate personal message to the TAG in Illinois, whom he knew personally, asking to have Captain Stokes contact him for possible volunteer action in New York.

He left the office shortly after noon, driving to Rachael's house for his personal gear, calling her en route to explain that he wouldn't see her tonight.

He heard two rings then heard her pick up, "Hi, Rachael."

"Peter (there was apprehension in her voice), are you about to tell me that my evening plans have changed?"

"Honey, I'm on my way to your place to get my gear. I'll probably be gone over night and see you some time tomorrow."

"Ah, kind of sudden isn't it? I guess you won't tell me what's going on, so I'll just watch the news."

"Yeah, better not to ask. I probably won't call tonight, so you might want to stay somewhere where you won't be alone."

She was more worried now about his safety than hers. "Don't worry big boy, I'll be all right tonight, but call me as soon as you can tomorrow, I really do love you!"

He paused for a second savoring her feelings. "You are in my heart every minute, darling."

After hanging up, he called the NBG transportation office to see what transportation plans had been made, learning that a Marine C130J Hercules airlift plane was standing by at Quantico for his transport to the Air National Guard base at Scotia, Long Island. It was a large airplane, but might be of other use when they got there.

After a few minutes at Rachael's apartment gathering his gear, he decided to drive straight down I-395, linking to I-95 for Quantico, VA. As he drove, he called the New York TAG's office and asked for the DCSOPS. He was forwarded to Colonel Dick O'Connor.

When O'Connor answered, Peter introduced himself and explained that he would be landing in New York in a few hours.

"Major, what's the operation and what resources do we need to provide?"

"Colonel, the intel still needs to arrive, including imagery. It should come to your office by direction of the National Security Advisor, before I arrive, so we'll need maps and GIS plots prepared, post haste. For the Op, I don't think we can plan on a land crossing since I'm told it's pretty wide open and sand dunes. I'm requesting jump qualified infantry if you can find volunteers on short notice. Twelve would be nice, but I'll take what you can get as long as they're veterans. Incidentally, I sent a query to the Illinois Guard asking for a Ranger, Captain Stokes, to contact you."

"Stokes is already on his way. We'll have him here in about five hours."

"That's excellent news. We worked together in the Chicago action last year."

O'Connor remembered. "I thought I recognized your name! Good show! Now I know why the Chief wanted you to come up from Washington."

"Thank you, sir. For equipment, I'm requesting infantry air assault TO&E (Table of Organization and Equipment) for all men and a qualified drop crew. A gun ship would be good for backup. Also, I'll need body armor and weapons."

"No problem. All will be arranged. Have a safe flight and I'll get this all coming together."

"Roger that, Colonel. See you shortly."

He was passing by the Pentagon heading south when Jim Lutz called.

"Major, I called the New York office, and the FBI will be contacting the TAG to coordinate. They should have a full SWAT team and mobile command center ready by this evening."

"That's great, Jim. Where are you now?"

"I'm just leaving the office on Pennsylvania Avenue heading to Quantico. I picked up a weapons load and combat BDUs, so I should be dressed for the occasion."

"Sounds good, Jim. I'll see you at Andrews."

Forty minutes later, Peter passed through the main gate and headed for the flight line. The Hercules crew was standing around the sand colored airplane waiting. He carried his gear from the parking lot and walked out on to the tarmac when one of the aircrew members, a female NCO, came to help. He thanked her and went on to meet the First Officer as the aircraft Commander was running through his preflight checklist in the cockpit. The pilot had filed a VFR flight plan up the east coast. It was a beautiful day for flying.

Before entering the plane through the aft loading ramp, Peter waited until Lutz arrived. They greeted, and Peter asked Jim if he'd ever flown in a C130 before. He had not, so Peter showed him around the cavernous interior of the military's most ubiquitous utility airplane. Four decades had elapsed since they introduced the big turboprop. The latest C-130J had major system improvements including digital avionics, color LCDs and head-up displays, the latest Nav systems and radar. Although able to carry tanks and other large equipment, it could also carry up to 62 paratroops seated along the sides of the cargo bay.

Three minutes after Lutz arrived, engines were started and everyone was strapped in. Shortly after that, they were airborne. Once settled into level flight, Peter went to the back of the cargo deck and stripped to his underwear. From his duffle bag, he put on his Army Combat Uniform (ACU), jump boots, utility belt and equipment vest, including his fighting knife on his chest and a shoulder holster. A second knife was sheathed across his lower back. The knives and shoulder holster were not Government Issue, but on active duty with the Army, as a Special Forces operative, he could choose his own weapons.

### Mission Launched

The plane landed at the Scotia Airport and taxied to the National Guard hangers. Dozens of uniformed personnel crowded around the back as the ramp lowered,. The two passengers walked down the ramp while it was still lowering to meet Colonel O'Connor at the bottom. He greeted Peter with a salute and Director Lutz, who had changed into black FBI BDUs in flight, with a hand shake.

O'Connor led them toward the hanger where several soldiers were assembling their gear. O'Connor introduced them and Peter was pleased to see that all were senior NCOs. From the way they handled their equipment, including parachute gear, they were professionals. O'Connor said, "Captain Stokes should be here in an hour. In the meantime, I'll let the men introduce themselves and get your equipment issued."

Once Peter was acquainted and had his equipment, he joined O'Connor and some others in a conference room inside the hanger. Two special agents from the local FBI field office joined them, and Lutz was bringing them and O'Connor up to speed on the information they had. When he was finished, The Colonel introduced one of his subordinates, LCOL Joyce Mitchel who had a packet of materials including site photographs, maps and terrain data pertaining to the house they were surrounding. Peter looked at everything along with Lutz and they agreed on a staging plan and communications protocol between the military component and the FBI. The FBI would follow the military assault with arrest and detention authority, once the terrorists were cornered.

While they were reviewing data, Captain John Stokes joined them. Stokes was a tall young soldier with a muscular physique. Peter walked up to him, extended his hand then embraced him. They had stopped an attack by terrorists in Chicago together, where Peter was severely wounded. Stokes had saved his life. They prevented the city from total destruction, creating a brothers-in-arms camaraderie that would bond them forever. It also increased today's mission success probability, since these two knew what to expect from each other.

Stokes saluted Colonel O'Connor and extended a large envelope saying, "Sir, these are my orders, issued by the Guard Bureau, placing me under your command temporarily."

O'Connor welcomed him aboard and officially appointed Peter as the Strike team leader. Peter then assembled the men in the conference room for mission plan development. After the meeting, everyone was excused to eat and spend a few hours of personal time with orders to assemble in the hanger at ten o'clock that night. Peter, Stokes and O'Connor went over the equipment list.

### Venezuela

The Venezuelan government was an OPEC ally. The country's President had recently honored the Iranian President at a state dinner in Caracas and declared that if the U.S. attacked Iran, Venezuela would consider itself attacked. Cooperation of the state-owned Banco Federal was tenuous at best. U.S. State department pressure, exerted through the ambassador, was needed to gain cooperation in tracking the movement of the extortion money. Promises and threats had been used.

Coincidnetally, the morning following the U.S. funds wire transfer, articles appeared in the El Nacional and El Mundo de Caracas newspapers, proclaiming that the U.S. was planning to seize the Venezuelan-owned CITCO oil refineries and auction the assets to U.S. companies. There was no truth to the story, but a shockwave of resentment shot through the country, hardening resentment against the U.S., and cooperation of the government dissolved in an instance.

Hale Warner was on the phone to the State department and his own contacts in the embassy in Caracas trying to find out where the story came from. By midday, sources indicated that the stories had developed around leaks made through some unidentified "official" channels. This was spy-speak. Someone with influence had created the story with enough creditability that both news services were convinced it was true. The information could have originated from anywhere in the world. Although false, it would take months or years to recover. In the meantime, the money trail ended as quickly as it began.

Hale left the office in the afternoon for some personal errands and called Rachael using his cellphone. When she answered, he said he wanted to meet with her again privately. They agreed to meet at Pentagon City, one metro stop away from the Pentagon. Located in a large mall, Pentagon City has many places to meet out of earshot.

They both arrived at the station about twenty minutes later and walked together to the food court. On the way, Hale began musing about things not adding up. They each got drinks and sat at a table distant from other shoppers.

Hale said, "You know Rachael, I'm worried that we have a mole inside the government. We're still working on the phone intercepts in Boston, but now someone blocked us from tracking funds flowing through Venezuelan banks. We haven't had many political dealings in Caracas, but only one day after State got their banks to cooperate, we had a political blowup caused by false news stories that had to come from the U.S. Timing can't be coincidental, especially after the Boston mission was also compromised. I've been in the intel business a long time and this stinks."

"Hale, I didn't know about the money. Do you suspect anyone?"

"There're a lot of people involved and I'm not sure, but I'm developing a list. One problem is that I can't trust very many people."

Rachael realized that the reason she was okay to Hale was because someone tried to kill her. She responded. "Well, at least there are two of us. That's a start, and we can both do some investigating."

"Look, you know you need to be careful about asking questions."

Touching his hand, "I'll be more careful this time."

He stood up and they started walking back to the metro station and he closed the conversation by saying, "Look, Rachael, we don't know who to trust, so let's keep contact to a minimum. We both have secure email and phone lines, so let's use them."

Rachael agreed and they walked back separately to the station, then back to work.

### Subterfuge

She got back to her office a little after four o'clock. Everything that happened in Boston, the attack on her, and the misinformation in Venezuela could be unrelated or deliberate subterfuge. If deliberate, it had to involve someone with access to highly restricted information.

It was hard to know where to begin, since so many agencies were involved. When she looked at her computer, a new email message appeared from INSCOM.

Dear Ms. Aston:

Have forwarded your request earlier for cellular phone tracks to CIA Director, Will Lawrence. They are most likely to have access to the intelligence requested. Although INSCOM was supporting the subject operations, our role was primarily to ensure our warfighters had the intelligence resources necessary for a successful operation. Primarily this involved acting as a liaison with the national agencies, eg NSA and CIA. In our opinion, the information you requested most likely resides in these two agencies. Since you copied NSA on your original message, I have only forwarded the action to CIA. I would encourage you to contact Mr. Lawrence directly, and will keep you informed if anything more develops at INSCOM.

Respectfully,

Bridgette LeMasters, BGEN, USA, INSCOM, Deputy Commanding General

Rachael had met Will Lawrence at an intelligence briefing in Washington after she joined the government. As a career spy, Lawrence had joined the CIA out of college after an aggressive recruiting process on campus. The work suited him from the beginning. Since she was relatively new to the profession and young, Lawrence would not regard her as a peer. Another obstacle to cooperation was the traditional disdain the CIA has for all other intelligence agencies, with the exception of NSA. CIA personnel didn't regard military intelligence agencies seriously. The role of Army intelligence was to assemble information for specific missions. Such information was often developed at other agencies then "packaged" for the theater commanders.

Rachael had sensed his arrogance at their introduction. She was impressed when he took her call immediately, addressing her like an old friend.

"Rachael! what a delightful surprise!"

"Hi, Will. It's nice to speak with you again."

He replied, "Look, after your success in Chicago, I've become a real fan of yours. How are you? Are you fully recovered?"

"Thanks for asking, Will. I'm in great shape."

"I'm so glad. Now, what can I do for you?"

She reiterated the request she had made to General LeMasters at INSCOM, understanding that the message had been forwarded to Will. He acknowledged the request and said they didn't have anything to report, suggesting that NSA might be a better source of information. Rachael confirmed that she was working with Hale Warner, which he endorsed.

Before ending the call, she said, "You know, Will. There is another angle Hale suggested, that might be related."

He sounded a little surly about continuing dialogue, "Yes, and what would that be, Rachael?"

She explained the newspaper articles in Venezuela that had the effect of undermining the trace of transfers in their national bank. His response was, "Rachael, it would be a real stretch for anyone in the U.S. to influence the newspapers down there."

"Will, it's not my idea. Hale and I are both trying to run it to the ground. I just thought the CIA has the best international sources, and you might be able to help us get some answers."

He responded, "If any agency can find answers, it would be us. I'll make some inquiries, but don't get your hopes up."

She hung up the phone, skeptical that he would do anything, and prepared to leave the office. She locked the files and logged off her computer. As she stood to leave, her cellphone began ringing in her purse, "Hello."

"Hi, darling!"

"Peter! I wasn't expecting to hear from you. This is wonderful!"

"Look, hon. I have a little time before working tonight and just wanted to hear your voice one more time."

"Peter, I love you with all my heart." She knew what "work" meant in his vernacular and wanted to hang on to the connection as long as possible. He wasn't in any danger while they were talking.

She could hear aircraft engine noise in the background and Peter's response was quick, "Rachael, I have to go now, but you are in my heart every second. See you tomorrow! I love you." The call ended.

She left the office feeling lonelier than she had before his call.

### Cocked and locked

By ten o'clock Friday night, the breaching plan had been developed and coordinated with the FBI. The Feds would be positioned on the road leading to the house, out of direct line of sight. The Army team, composed of reserve Rangers, would parachute after dark on both sides of the house, landing about a quarter mile away. It was going to be a foggy night. Stokes, Striker Two, would lead six men to the north side, and Peter, Striker One, would have six on the south side. The back of the house faced east, toward the ocean. The FBI would blockade the road and cover the west side.

The airdrop would be from 12,000 feet from the C130 that had carried Peter from Andrews earlier that afternoon. On the ground, an AH-1 Super Cobra attack helicopter from the 142nd Attack Battalion, Latham, NY, would provide air support, if called. The Cobra would circle five miles away. Carrying a 20mm turret gun, armed with explosive and armor piercing rounds, it could disintegrate the house. Night vision goggles were issued to the senior NCOs in both teams. Peter was issued an M4 rifle. Ammunition was issued to each soldier one hour before the operation began. Aircraft were fueled and the flight crew loaded the Cobra's ammunition. Fifteen minutes before launch, the Rangers completed equipment checks and put on their parachutes before entering the C130. A few minutes before takeoff, all were strapped in with Striker One's team on the port side and Striker Two on the starboard side. The airplane would fly from south to north due to wind currents in the area, so Peter's team would jump first. Each soldier had a headset communicator and each squad had a SINGGARS radio.

At precisely 0100 hours, the four 4700 horsepower turboprop engines on the C130 began turning sequentially. In less than five minutes the Hercules was beginning its taxi roll. The location of the house was programmed into GPS navigation systems aboard both aircraft. The C130 was cleared onto the active runway immediately. Troops were all sitting upright as the big plane accelerated fast with the light load, and only one third of the runway was needed before lifting off. The interior was dark except for dim red lights. The plane made a climbing turn to the left midway down the runway gaining altitude as it headed east over the ocean. The plan was to climb to 10,000 feet before starting a wide turning arc back toward the drop zone. It took about ten minutes to reach altitude then the pilot commenced a gentle two minute 150 degree turn ending with a heading of 030 degrees, perpendicular to the coastline. They continued the climb at one thousand feet per minute while making small corrections in their course to cross the coastline one mile south of the target.

Five miles from the coast, the "ready" light and horn were activated. The plane was level at twelve thousand feet when the ramp lowered. The inrush of cold air and the buffeting was exhilarating as each squad formed in a line. The first jump signal was given one mile from the coast, still over the water.

As Peter's team jumped, there was a sensation of rising over a hill caused by the momentum changes from the plane's forward motion conflicting with wind vortex plus gravity during free fall. Peter had worked with the pilots to calculate the jump point. Falling free, they streamlined, holding the drop velocity to around 120 mph.

They fell in formation for almost a minute. As a ritual, most had eaten cheese about an hour before to keep the acids from coming up in their mouths with less than one "G" acting on their bodies. The effective wind force was like facing into a blizzard. At 2000 feet, lanyards were pulled with a jolt as parachutes opened. The squad was equipped with small ram-air wing chutes using handgrips to steer. The small chutes allowed fast maneuvers, but were challenging to land in the dark on sand dunes. Flaring too high or too low could be painful.

They couldn't see the ground until moments before impact. Peter was relieved when the fog thinned and he saw sand a few hundred feet below, not water. The squad landed safely, and it took a few minutes to assemble. Peter used the radio to contact Stokes, "Striker Two, this is Striker One, over."

"Striker One this is Striker Two in position north of the target, over."

"Roger Two. Rhino One (FBI team), this is Striker One, are you in position? Over."

Lutz responded, "Striker this is Rhino, in position, over."

"Roger Rhino. Cobra are you in position? Over."

"Roger Striker, we're hot, over."

"Striker One, out."

The two squads began moving slowly cautiously toward the house. Inside, Majiid and two of his men sat in the kitchen with only the stove light for illumination. They were having tea. "Why have I heard nothing?"

His men looked away as he continued, "Al Rahbar (my leader), he says nothing! Does he not know of our danger?"

It was rhetorical. He had had tried email and even the cellphone, but there was no response. The two men at the table with him sat silently. Another man was sitting in a chair by a window in the darkened front room. He was facing west, watching the road. One of the men in the kitchen, not wishing to show his fear and frustration, stepped outside periodically onto the back porch, facing the sea to check the unlit beach. All seemed quiet, but they were nervous after the capture of their comrades.

From their landing positions, soldiers were moving toward the house in the darkness. From aerial pictures they all knew it was a two-story cape with an attached garage on the south side, extending behind the house. The first goal of the mission was to verify the number of people in the house. As Peter's squad approached, one soldier moved ahead, crouching by the garage. As he peered behind, there was a large window facing the ocean. He stayed low moving along the back. Resting on a knee, he peered inside with night vision goggles. "Striker One, I verify mil storage containers stacked in the garage, missiles suspected, out."

The garage was set back closer to the ocean. The scout moved past the garage window to the corner by the house. One of Stokes' team reached the house at the northwest corner. The first reported. "Strike team, be aware. Dim light from rear kitchen area." He moved closer, next to the porch steps. Then the back door opened. The soldier dropped to the sand below the deck and slid partially underneath.

Slow heavy footsteps were coming toward the rail near his position. The person walking was a man, judging from the cadence and weight. The soldier, Corporal Jerry Harris, laid his M4 on the ground beside him and waited motionless. The two scouts still needed to verify if there were hostages

Harris lay still as the footsteps came closer, controlling his breathing. The man stopped a few feet from the rail, on the opposite side of the steps. In the darkness, Harris sensed him leaning on the railing. Something set on the deck was probably a weapon. They had expected AKs.

The man then stood upright and took cigarettes from his shirt pocket. When the match was lit, Harris was able to verify the AK47 and the man's features.

Taking a drag from his cigarette, the bearded man stooped with elbows on the rail. He finished his smoke in less than two minutes. Both teams were holding in place, waiting for Harris to report. The smoker lit a second cigarette then walked closer to Harris, stepping down two steps leading to the sandy grass. He seated himself on the deck with his feet near Harris' face. The AK was close by, lying on the deck. When he lit his third cigarette, Harris' face was three feet from his right foot. He could smell the man through the acrid smoke. The sound of the ocean and the night breeze concealed his breathing as he remained motionless. His face was half-buried in the sand as he began inching his right knee forward, seeking a foothold. He was ready to pounce when a radio call came in. Although his earphone was implanted in his ear, the sound was detectible at short distances.

The man on deck didn't move, but when Harris failed to report, a second call alerted the smoker. He stood on the step and reached for his AK as Harris sprang upward, landing his left shoulder in the man's side. Harris twisted, wrapping his left arm around the man's waist and grabbing the shirt with his right hand, throwing him from the steps. He hit the ground awkwardly. Harris leapt, planting his right elbow near the larynx. He recoiled and pummeled the man in the temple with the butt of his left hand hard enough to put the man in a coma. Staying low, Harris dragged the limp body behind the garage, where he bound hands and legs together with nylon tie wraps. He reported in before returning to the deck, crouching beside the steps as he placed the AK underneath. He grabbed his M4 and blew sand off the receiver, then cycled one round to be sure it was working freely. Moving in a low crouch, he stepped onto the deck and crossed to the rear door. Peering inside, he saw two bearded men sitting at the table.

Returning to the squad, Harris reported seeing two men in the rear of the house. The second scout reported that he was positioned at the far front corner of the house near the door. He thought there was someone by the front window. Peter radioed, "Striker Two, are you in position? Over."

"Striker Two. Roger that, over."

"Striker Two, advance to the side of the house, position two men at the front stoop. We'll proceed to the rear. Your assignment is the front and north side, Striker One will take the back and south, out."

As the front team moved into place, two men were partially concealed behind a shrub on the north side of the stoop when the front door opened. Both soldiers froze in place, when a man with an AK47 walked down onto the walkway, advancing about six feet from the front of the house. He stretched. The soldier closest to him took a step as the man started to turn, hitting him in the face with his rifle butt. The man stumbled backward and the second soldier tackled him, but the AK fired. One soldier was shot in the foot, while the other hit the gunman with another hard blow to the head.

The two remaining men in the house reacted immediately, retrieving their weapons, Majiid rushed toward the open door. He slammed it shut and yelled at the other man to stay in the back. The U.S. soldiers, one helping the other, retreated around the northwest corner of the house.

Peter talked into his headphone. "Striker Two, report."

"Ah. Striker One, One bad guy down. We have one wounded, foot not serious. Over."

"Any reading on hostile strength or hostages? Over"

"Negative. Over."

He ordered his men to break the windows in the garage and sent two to guard the missiles. He then radioed the FBI, "Rhino, do you read, over."

"Go ahead Striker, over."

"Rhino, the missiles are secured in the garage and the terrorists are caged and surrounded inside the house. Hostages unknown. Come forward. Over."

"Roger Striker. We're moving, out."

The FBI mobile command and SWAT trucks were one mile away, and moved in front of the house with huge strobe lights. Local police had also been summoned. The lightshow was dramatic, stretching along the front of the house for a long distance in either direction. The terrorists had no way to escape. With the show of force, they surrendered without any more shots fired.

### Victory Call

Rachael planned to go to the office on Saturday and was getting dressed when the phone range. "Hello."

"We got 'em, Rachael! They're all in custody, and we got all the missiles!"

"Wow, Peter, that's fantastic! Are you all right — was anyone hurt?"

"Not too bad. One wounded, but he'll be okay. Even the bad guys aren't too bad, just a couple headaches. Everything worked better than expected by military standards."

"That's so good to hear, Peter. Will it be on the news?"

"Yeah, they just cleared us military types out of the area, so the FBI should be making statements by now. I'm on Long Island and will be home this afternoon."

"Okay, we'll have a bottle of Champaign to celebrate.

Call me when you land. I love you."

"I will, darling. I love you." He could not sense her tension ease.

As quickly as the call ended, Rachael found the remote control and turned on the television. There was a briefing underway that was transitioning to questions from reporters. The subtitle indicated that the speaker was an FBI Director, James Lutz. The sound muted and a voice she recognized as a national news anchor interrupted to recount the event and the seizure of twelve missiles by federal agents. Then the live feed audio returned as reporters asked questions. Rachael watched for a few minutes then finished getting ready to leave for the office. As she picked up the remote to turn the set off, there was a break in the news with a blue dialogue box streaming across the bottom of the screen.

THIS JUST IN. THIS MORNING AT 7:00, Hale Warner, Deputy Director of National Intelligence at the NSA, WAS KILLED IN AN AUTOMOBILE ACCIDENT WHILE DRIVING SOUTHBOUND ON THE GEORGE WASHINGTON PARKWAY FROM HIS HOME IN MCLEAN, VIRGINIA, APPARENTLY EN ROUTE TO HIS OFFICE.

Stunned, she was no longer listening to the background press conference. Hale was dead. She sat on the sofa and just stared. Nobody gets killed on the GW Parkway. It's a slow scenic drive. It wasn't even winter. She thought, "It's Saturday morning, by god, there is no traffic." The roads were dry and there was nothing treacherous about the drive from McLean to work. Disbelief and grief were clouding her ability to think. She was nearly killed two nights earlier, and now Hale was gone. She lay on the couch and gave up any notion of going to work. She felt alone and wanted Peter there with her.

Peter flew back as the only passenger on the Hercules en route to Quantico. Lutz stayed in New York. As the plane taxied to the parking area, he stood by the door hoping to make a quick exit, but he waited to thank the crew for their support. After saying goodbye, he loaded his gear into his Explorer and drove toward Georgetown. When he reached the Interstate, he called Rachael. "Hi, babe, I'll be there in an hour."

"Oh, Peter!'

"What's wrong?"

"Hale Warner's dead!

"What? How?

"He was killed in his car on the GW Parkway."

"Was it an accident?

"Don't know. Oh, Peter, he was a good man!"

"I know, hon. I'll be there as quick as I can."

Her mood had changed. The victory in New York seemed bittersweet by comparison. He needed to get to her as quickly as possible.

It was still daylight when Peter turned onto P Street. Rachael was upset and could be in danger if her instincts were right. A block away, he took the first curbside parking space that was opened and ran to her door. She met him at the threshold throwing her arms around his neck and sobbing. "Peter..."

He held her. "It's okay, babe. I'm home."

"Why did he have to die?"

"I don't know, babe. I don't know?"

Rachael had controlled her feelings most of the day, but seeing Peter elevated her conflicting emotions of joy, sorrow and fear. She just wanted to have him hold her. His feelings erupted as he stroked her hair and held her tightly. He felt her body quiver. She captivated him and he was helpless to do or say anything. They didn't move for several seconds before she loosened her grip. She slipped slowly from his arms, but grasped his hand as they walked to the sofa.

Sitting beside each other, she looked at him for the first time through tear-swollen eyes. They spoke very little that night and went to bed early. Neither slept soundly, as she laid her head on his chest. It was uncomfortable for him in one position so long, but she needed his comfort.

He was up at sunrise and made some coffee before reading the news online. By mid-morning, he was watching Meet the Press before Rachael came downstairs looking rested. Her grace and beauty were amazing, even in winkled pajamas and without makeup. He made her tea, and poured himself another cup of black coffee.

She thanked him and sat on the couch. As the news program muted in the background, they started talking about his success in New York. The parachute drop at night was exciting, but seemed overly dramatic. She had to admit that it was remarkable no one was killed.

He opened the dialogue about Hale Warner. "Rachael. Do you think there's any connection between the guys that came after you, and Warner?"

She responded quietly, "I wish I knew."

"So tell me about your last meeting with Warner."

"Hale was worried about a mole inside the U.S., helping the terrorists. I think he thought it was in the civil agencies or the administration, but that's just a guess. He was trying to reconstruct the signal to the shooters in Boston, and the fact that we lost track of the monetary transfer. He didn't believe in coincidences, since he had everything staged for the bank's cooperation. The Venezuela bankers shifted 180 degrees based on some bogus reports in Caracas papers one day after agreements were reached. Those reports came from leaks inside the U.S. government. The Boston situation is probably related."

Peter said quietly, "We need to keep you protected."

### CIA Situation

Sunday passed uneventfully as Peter and Rachael stayed at home. Monday morning, they were both hurrying to get to their offices. Peter insisted on driving Rachael to and from work. His office at the Guard Bureau was near the Pentagon, and they could adjust their schedules to travel together. Rachael felt a little nervous, appreciating his escort.

Entering her office, she retrieved a voicemail message from General Simmons asking to meet with him first thing in the morning. He arrived a few minutes later and she went straight to his office. He said, "Rachael, I want to tell you how sorry I am for you about Hale Warner. I know you two were working closely recently."

"Thank you, sir. It's still kind of surreal to me."

"I understand, Rachael. I must ask you if there could be any connection with the work you two have been doing?"

"Sir, I don't know. Hale was concerned that there could be someone in Washington working with the terrorists. I just don't know."

"Okay, but you should keep both eyes open for anything suspicious. You need to take extra precautions until this situation sorts out. We're gonna take some security measures."

"Thanks for your concern, General. My boyfriend is driving me to work and home."

"Okay, Rachael, but I want to have someone with you whenever you leave the building during the day."

"I appreciate that, sir."

She went back to her office feeling more insecure than before. When she checked her computer, there was an email message announcing a meeting at CIA headquarters. Will Lawrence was calling a meeting of all the intelligence officers involved with the aircraft attacks. The subject was vague, stated as, "Urgent new situation."

The meeting was scheduled for 1300 that same day. So after an early lunch, Rachael requisitioned a car, and General Simmons had arranged for protective services to provide two bodyguards. CIA headquarters at Langley, VA, was located fifteen minutes north of the Pentagon near the Parkway.

When Rachael arrived at Langley, she was escorted to a meeting room somewhere below ground level. A group formed quickly with Will Lawrence in charge. The attendees included Steve Sayar, Rachael and an SES-level person from NSA in place of Hale Warner. At the outset, Lawrence acknowledged the loss of Hale, whom all respected and regarded as a friend.

He began, "Okay. Thank you all for coming on such short notice. This room is a top secret briefing facility, which is appropriate for a situation that has developed.

"As I'm sure you all have speculated, the CIA has human intelligence resources in a few key countries. These people take years to cultivate, usually beginning long before they have progressed to positions important as sources of information.

"Occasionally, these resources are compromised, and it's our practice to give them protection if we can, usually through asylum in the States. That is the reason I called this meeting."

After a moment for the information to settle, Steve Sayar asked, "Will, isn't it a little unusual to involve others in matters within CIA's charter?"

"Yes, Steve, but this time we need some help, given the circumstances and some specific demands from our asset.

"The agency needs help from the DoD, and I think you're all stakeholders as far as this person is concerned."

All were listening intently as Will picked up a remote projector control.

"I suspect all of you will recognize this man." He pressed the controller, showing a bearded heavy-set Middle Eastern man neatly dressed in a western-style business suit.

All studied the image before Lawrence continued, "This is Sheik Ali Abu Qatada, Iran's foreign minister."

Everyone leaned forward studying the picture, since most had never seen the minister in a suit.

"You probably don't know that Sheik Abu Qatada and I went to college together in the 1970's when the Shah was in power. He was Ali Qatada then, my friend and son of a wealthy oil family. After the Islamic revolution, Ali was initially placed in a labor camp when his family's holdings were nationalized. But, because of his education, he managed to work from those poor beginnings into government service, eventually achieving his current rank. Throughout his ordeals, we remained friends, and he never forgave the Ayatollah Khomeini for destroying his family and killing his father and mother. As a developing intelligence asset, I was his only handler, and you can imagine how priceless his services have been over the years.

"Sheik Qatada was previously Iran's Minister of Intelligence and National Security. In this capacity, he had ultimate oversight of Iran's subversive operations, including funding terrorists. I know this will sound preposterous, but he actually managed to channel most of their projects away from the U.S. and informed us of attacks when Americans were in danger. In the 'War on Terror,' he has been one of our most important sources of information.

"We now need to return the favor. It seems that he's being blamed for the failure of the plot to shoot down our commercial airliners. Ali was informed of the plan before transferring to his new position a few months ago. He claims that he never knew the timing after that. For reasons that may be linked to the extortion, someone in their Ministry of Intelligence has accused Ali of disclosing the plot to us. He believes the source of this smoke screen is his successor in their spy organization. Ali doesn't know about the final ransom payment, which corroborates this suspicion.

"In any event, he has asked for our help escaping the country and, in exchange, is prepared to disclose everything he knows about their intelligence programs, including their spies throughout the western world. There is even a possibility that he can identify this 'King Cobra', but we haven't been able to discuss that yet."

He paused to let others think about it. There was general discussion about the "value" of this defection, but all agreed that securing the Minister would be invaluable as an intelligence asset.

Rachael asked, "Will, what do you need from DoD?"

"I'm looking for ideas. Ali has been placed under house arrest, but feels it's only a matter of days before he'll be formally charged. That means death, and probably an arranged suicide before any trial."

The NSA Agent said, "If he's already under arrest, we can't exactly invade Iran."

Lawrence responded, "Of course not, but we must do something, and fast. He may not have many days."

Steve Sayar spoke next, "Will, I can see the value in getting this fellow out and we probably owe him the effort, but what can we do?"

"I don't know. I'd like everyone to think about this and get back to me with ideas. You cannot discuss this outside of your immediate offices for obvious reasons. Any leaks and he'll be dead, literally."

The meeting ended shortly afterward. Rachael was met in the lobby of the building by her escorts and driven back to the Pentagon. As they approached the East entrance, she pulled out her cellphone and hit the first speed-dial number. After one ring, she heard, "Peter."

"Hi, what are you doing this afternoon?"

"Dunno, but I'd sure like to see my girl!"

"All right, lover boy, come to my office. We'll have a snack and work."

"You really are romantic!"

After walking to the cafeteria together, they brought lunch back to the department's secure compartmentalized information facility (SKIF). Peter had a pizza, and Rachael brought a salad. The SKIF had the look and feel of a bank vault, including a thick round armored door.

Peter declared, "Wow! What a treat! I don't think I've ever been allowed to eat or drink in a SKIF." SKIFs are facilities that contain the highest classified data.

"Eat something, and don't complain about the decorating!"

They nibbled quietly as she began. "Peter, I need your advice."

He looked at her, continuing to eat without saying anything.

"There's a situation with a high-level minister in Iran who needs our help to escape from the country."

"I bet there's a line of them waiting to get out."

"This is serious. The guy is one of our most valuable spies and has been discovered."

"In that case, he's probably already toast."

"We don't think so. Will Lawrence knows him. They went to school together. He says he's under house arrest for a short time, until they move him to prison."

"Do you know the address?"

"We can find out where he lives, but get serious. What can we do to pull this guy out?"

He leaned back in his chair and steeped his hands together, looking at her, then at the ceiling. He was quiet for almost a minute. Then he leaned back on the table placing both hands flat. "Well, I'm not sure anything will work, but I can think about it."

### Research

They finished lunch and walked out without discussing it again. Peter said he would do some research and get back to her late in the afternoon. He didn't say anything more about his ideas, but Rachael was beginning to dread having brought him into the situation.

As he left the office, he kissed her on the cheek saying, "I'll see you later."

Rachael looked at him apprehensively and just smiled.

Peter knew that he would upset her again if he shared his thoughts prematurely. He needed to know more facts before formulating his ideas. He left her office and headed straight to the Pentagon basement.

It took several minutes to walk to the Operations Center. Peter wanted to talk to his old friend, Master Sergeant Josh Blomstein. They had gone through Ranger training together and had been Sergeants in the 82nd before Peter was commissioned. His special relation with Sergeant Blomstein had been forged in the deserts of the Middle East and Africa. Josh was Peter's primary contact for intelligence and mission planning information.

Josh Blomstien grew up in upstate New York and joined the Army after graduating from Utica High School. He served in the 82nd Airborne Division and was chosen to join the 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta, "Delta Force. Before deploying to Somalia he married his life-long sweetheart, Sarah Hart, and they had two young boys together.

Blomstien deployed to Mogadishu, Somalia in the summer of 1993. He and Peter earned their first significant medals together in that conflict and had been promoted to Sergeant together.

Although Peter had the necessary clearances to enter the OC, he was required to stop at an anteroom for Blomstein to escort him inside.

Passing through the vaulted doors, Josh met Peter, "Major Shields! As I live and breathe, how are you? It was great to read about you in Chicago, nice going pal!"

"Thanks. Josh. We lost some good people, but we saved more, including the girl I hope to marry."

"Marry! You? That's great man. When's the date?"

"Well, I haven't exactly asked her yet, but I'm working on that.

"I need your help again, buddy. How good is your information on Tehran these days?"

Josh looked at him quizzically. "You're not planning on going downtown again?"

"No, not really, I'm just checking a few sources of information before I advise a friend."

Josh was skeptical, "You know, Peter, Major, the last time you nearly got your ticket punched. You can't beat the odds every time. Whatever you're cooking up, don't. As bad as it was last time, the people were still pretty confused with the Islamic revolution. Now, the Ayatollahs have unified everyone against us. I can't think of a more certain death trap if you plan to go back in."

"Josh, I said I'm just doing research and remember, I'm in the Guard now, filling a desk job. I'm just doing a favor for a spook friend."

Josh didn't believe him, but he knew better than to continue the dialogue. Peter was the most steadfast person he'd ever known. He also knew that he'd never know if a mission into the heart of Iran succeeded or not. Most likely, anyone involved would be assigned to the CIA and disavowed if anything went wrong. If it did, the people inside Iran would never be seen again and would cease to exist in government records. He could not help feeling that he might lose a friend and never even know it.

"Okay, Peter, what do you need to know?"

### General Simmons

After leaving the OC, Peter used an office phone to call Rachael's boss. He asked General Simmons for a private meeting, away from Rachael, regarding a matter of national security. Peter had met the General, but didn't know him professionally. Simmons had spent most of his career as an intelligence officer. They agreed to meet in an obscure office on the E-ring, second level. The Pentagon was so enormous and partitioned that there was little risk of Rachael discovering them.

General Simmons graduated from the United States Air Force Academy in 1974. He was six four and played on the academy basketball team. His good looks earned him the call sign, "Elvis". Simmons grew up in Hampton, New Hampshire, the son of a lawyer father and nurse mother.

He had more than 4,000 flying hours in a variety of fighter aircraft. He participated as a Wing Commander during the 1995 war in Bosnia and Herzegovina, code-named Operation Deliberate Force, and in 2003 served as Chief of Staff of the Joint Special Operations Task Force for Northern Iraq.

His entry into the intelligence community began as an F-16 test pilot during the mid-1990s flying a series of recce pod designs. He flew the first operational electro-optical camera pod missions in the Balkans. He took over the Army's Deputy Chief of Staff, Intelligence, code G2, at the end of the decade. It was not unusual for General Officers to earn their third star in other DoD branches.

After Peter's phone call, Simmons went alone to their meeting. Peter stood at attention as the General entered the office, where Simmons said, "At ease, Major. Now, can you tell me what this is all about?"

"Yes, Sir. I think you know that I have a relationship with Rachael Aston."

"Yes, I do. Peter, you're a fortunate guy. I'm no matchmaker, but you two are a fine pair."

"Thank you, sir. I really appreciate your responding to my request."

"That's okay, Peter. I know you wouldn't have called if it weren't important."

"Yes, sir. Okay, Rachael approached me for advice about extracting a foreign official from inside a foreign country."

"I can't comment on that, it would be classified."

"Yes, sir, I know, but she was asking my advice in an official capacity. You may not know my record. She knows that I have made two extractions there before. She read my file."

"Okay Peter, I didn't know, but I do know about your role in Chicago. I accept your credentials. What can I do for you in this case?"

"Sir, I may be the only person with the right experience to run the mission. Timing is too short to spin anyone else up. I need your endorsement to get all the intelligence data and access to people such as Director Lawrence. After that, I'll need your cover with Rachael."

Simmons looked at Peter for a few moments before responding, "Look, Major, I can get you what you need, but I can't do anything about Rachael's feelings in the matter."

"I know, sir. She's gonna be pretty touchy with this. Thanks for your support."

They talked for a while about the steps to follow, then Simmons left the office a few minutes before Peter. Alone, it was the first time he could contemplate Rachael's reaction to his involvement. He suddenly wanted nothing to do with it.

### On the Team

Later that afternoon, Peter returned to Rachael's office. After waiting outside while she finished a phone call, he entered saying, "Hi, Ms. Aston, are you set to go home?"

"Almost, I just need to shut things down here. Did you come up with any ideas about the case we discussed at noon?"

"Maybe, but I think you need to follow protocol before we go any further."

Rachael was a rising star in the Defense Department and was, in some ways, still learning the proper procedure for establishing someone's need-to-know. "Okay, what's the right military way to do this?"

"You could start by advising your boss that I should be 'read on' to the team."

"Okay, come with me."

She stood and walked past him, heading for her boss' office. Knocking on the doorframe, she said, "General Simmons, can we have a minute?"

Simmons invited Rachael and Peter into his office. "So, what's on your mind, Rachael?"

"Sir, you know that meeting I went to at Langley this morning?"

Simmons nodded his head.

"Well, I asked Peter, Major Shields, if he had any advice. In his active Army career, he went into the country to rescue someone."

"Well, did he have any advice?"

Peter cut off her response, "Sir, if I may, Ms. Aston told me generally about the case and asked for any advice I could give. I think that I can be of assistance if you will allow me to gather some background information and assist in organizing a mission that will need CENTCOM support."

Simmons responded, "Before I authorize anything, I'll need to have some idea of a mission plan and timetable from you."

Rachael spoke, "General, Major Shields is only advising in this. CIA will need to develop the plan. This is not a military action." She was showing more emotion that appropriate.

Simmons acknowledged, "Yes, I know, Rachael, but the military often provides volunteer personnel for covert agency work. Heck, half their pilots are secretly assigned from the military."

"Sir, the Major isn't suggesting that he should be involved. It's just his experience we want to use."

Peter interjected, "Rachael, I don't think the General is ordering anything yet. Let's see what develops before we worry about who's doing what."

Peter and the General exchanged glances. Rachael knew Peter's history of volunteering, and felt the discussion was trending in that direction when Simmons spoke again, "Okay, fine then. Major, you are cleared to work on the case, and I would like a preliminary plan by tomorrow morning. We won't have much time to act."

With that said, Peter stood and Rachael left ahead of him. They went back to her office where she shut down her computer and gathered her purse, brushing past him as she walked out the door. She walked faster than normal as they went toward his car in the West parking lot, saying nothing. They rode in silence toward Georgetown and when Peter parked near her apartment, she jumped out of his truck and moved ahead to the door, while he hurried to catch her.

Once through the door, he asked, "Rachael, what's wrong?"

She looked away from him for a moment before saying, "Peter, do you love me?"

Putting his hands on her shoulders, he responded, "Rach, you know I do. Now tell me what's wrong."

Turning to face him, she said, "What's wrong? You know what's wrong! It's not the same anymore Peter. When you came into my life, everything changed. You can't be so selfish to only think of yourself anymore. I know you. I know your history. You want to go to Iran! Don't you care that I would be devastated to lose you? Doesn't it matter?"

Clasping her face as tears began to form in her eyes, he said, "Look, I'm only an advisor, nobody has asked me to do anything."

Pulling away, she turned her back to him saying, "Can you promise me that you will not go into Iran?"

When he didn't answer immediately, she ran up the stairs, slamming her bedroom door. The rest of the night, he stayed on the couch downstairs without sleep. He knew she was right and he knew that he could risk their future if he made the wrong choices in the coming days.

### Impasse

The next morning, Rachael's attitude had not softened. They barely spoke before he dropped her at the east entrance of the Pentagon. Rather than going to the Guard Bureau, Peter parked by the west entrance and went to the Operations Center. His first task of the day was to call Will Lawrence to meet with him. Lawrence was coming to the Pentagon in a few hours anyway and suggested meeting with Peter at ten o'clock. By noon, he had assembled the skeleton of a plan for Simmons and Lawrence to approve. Before he did anything with it, he needed to have a private talk with Rachael.

He called her office phone, "This is Rachael Aston."

"Hi, it's me."

After a short pause, she said, "Hi, Peter." Her voice was monotone, with no inflection.

"Ah, look, I know you're upset, but I need to talk to you privately, about us."

Almost sarcastically, she said, "You want to have lunch again in the vault?"

"No, I want to talk about us. I don't want this thing hurting our relationship."

She was quiet for a moment, "Look, Peter. I don't know what to say. Where do you want to meet?"

They agreed to have lunch in the center courtyard. Within ten minutes, they were sitting together at a picnic table away from other people. Rachael was brooding and Peter didn't say much at first, not sure where to start.

Finally, he said, "Rachael, darling, I don't want you to be mad at me. Can we talk about this?"

She stared at her salad then spoke without looking at him, "Peter, I thought we trusted each other. I thought I meant something special to you." She looked up at him and continued, "You probably don't even know how much you've hurt me."

"Rachael, I never meant this..."

She cut him off, continuing, "I know you don't, but that's part of the problem. You can't just wish away promises."

After a slight pause, she went on, "You said you were through taking chances with your life. Do you really understand how heartbroken I would be if you weren't part of my life? Don't you feel you owe me the truth?"

Peter shuddered, "Ah, look, I know you feel betrayed, but you also have to believe that you mean more to me than life itself."

Rachael shot back, "I don't see this as being about your feelings, I'm trying to express my feelings. If you get killed doing something secret and heroic, I'm left with nothing. I made an emotional commitment to you based on an expectation that we could live long lives together. Now -- Now you work around me to take on another dangerous mission. Why you, Peter! Why you! You promised me."

As she started to sob quietly, Peter said, "I understand that you feel some betrayal. But, remember that you brought me into this."

"I asked for your advice! Not for you to suit up and go into action again."

"I know, but let me finish. You got me involved in this thing because it's important. An important friend of the U.S. is in danger, and we need to try to save him. We don't have much time. Will Lawrence thinks he could be killed at any time. Hours matter. What am I supposed to do, try to suggest a plan that will take days or weeks to educate someone else to undertake? What's the point? This guy will be dead, and we all will have wasted several days for nothing, when it's something I can do immediately. I've been through similar missions in Iran before. I'm the only person on earth that can do this in time to save this guy. I have to try."

"Why? Why do you need to do anything? What if you were just a weekend warrior and hadn't been nearly killed before in Iran?"

"You know the answer. I have a better chance of success than anyone else."

"What chance? Can you guarantee you can get in and out while tugging some fat bureaucrat through the desert?"

He was quiet for a moment then said, "Rachael, you know I can't guarantee anything, but I can't sit back without trying. You've helped convince me this guy is worth the attempt."

"Don't you dare implicate me in this!"

"That's not what I meant, and you know it! The facts are the facts, and we'll have the best resources of our government helping the mission succeed."

Rachael looked down again, "What good are they once you cross the border into Iran? You'll be alone."

"Not exactly, we have native intelligence agents in country. I won't be alone all the time."

"Sure, some camel driver is real backup. Peter, don't kid me. You beat the odds before, but you never went after anyone this high in the government. They'll send their entire Army after you."

The conversation wasn't going to end happily, so he tried to conclude by saying, "Look, Rachael, there's nothing I can change now, but understand that my love for you will be my motivation to get out safely. We have something together I never expected in life, and don't want to lose it."

Her expression softened, saying, "I want to stop talking about this now. When can we go home? I want to be alone with you."

"I just need to review my ideas with General Simmons and Will Lawrence, then we can go. I'll probably be leaving tonight if this gets rolling."

"Okay, I'll skip the briefings this afternoon. I really don't want to know anything about this. Just finish quickly so we can have dinner together, at least."

"I will."

The briefing with Lawrence and Simmons had already been scheduled at two o'clock at Langley. Peter had prepared a Power Point presentation in the Operations Center that would be transferred to CIA headquarters using their secure network.

The plan consisted of a Gantt chart showing timelines for key events from insertion to extraction. Organizational assignments, call signs and communications protocols were not developed and would need to be formulated as the first phase progressed. This was risky, but time had not allowed every detail to be developed. Peter understood the risks involved and was depending on support from Washington to get resources aligned while he was underway.

The essence of the plan involved one covert operative, Peter, entering the country and exiting with Sheik Abu Qatada under his protection. Other than the entrance and exit plan, he would be improvising once inside the country. It was unlikely that the Minister could be informed.

By three o'clock, Peter had departed Langley and was driving toward Georgetown to be with Rachael. He felt lame about minimizing the danger this operation posed. In his past missions into Tehran, every detail had been planned and practiced. Only one prior mission required extraction of a person, who was a military man and his family. In that case, the man came to a predetermined rendezvous point. In this case, he would have to overcome whatever security surrounded the Minister and hope that he was physically and mentally able to help save himself.

Twenty minutes later, he was parking outside Rachael's townhouse. Simmons had arranged for a driver and escort to take her home after lunch.

When he entered her home, Rachael was in the kitchen unloading bags of groceries. They met half way and embraced. Her earlier somberness was gone, "I'm fixing a special going-away dinner. I hope we'll have some time tonight afterward."

He looked into her eyes, "This is great. I want to help you."

"You go pack. I'll get things started."

Peter went upstairs to the second bedroom where his footlocker was stored. It took him half an hour to pack his gym bag and shower. When he came back down, he was dressed in lightweight civilian clothes with baggy pants and a long-sleeved shirt. He wouldn't be wearing fatigues on this "assignment."

They had a quiet steak dinner with good red wine. The background music was soft jazz. The only thing odd under the circumstances was the bright afternoon sunlight. Their time schedule had been accelerated wanting to fit an entire evening together into whatever time remained before the phone would ring. When Peter left Langley, arrangements for transport were just beginning, so he would have to respond quickly once the initial assets were arranged. In the meantime, Rachael and Peter wanted time to stand still. After dinner, he led her upstairs to the bedroom. There was a undercurrent of nervousness as both listened for the phone to ring. A little after seven o'clock, the call came to his cellphone.

"Hello, this is Peter," was all she heard before he said, "Roger, out."

Rachael asked weakly, "So, you have to leave now?"

"It'll be about fifteen minutes before the car arrives."

They embraced for several minutes, both fighting back tears. It could not last forever, but Peter wanted to savor the moment, which he would dream about if he had time to rest over the next several days.

He was downstairs waiting at the door when the car arrived. Looking back up the stairs, he smiled at her and blew a kiss. Oddly, Rachael stayed upstairs as he slipped out and locked the door. He was gone.

### Operation Reclaim Freedom

A light blue sedan was waiting in the street as Peter walked down the steps. Throwing his bag into the back seat, he sat in front with the "Company" driver.

As they wound through the streets of Georgetown headed for I-295, the driver announced, "We should be at Andrews in about forty minutes, sir. There's a MAC flight waiting for you. SEAL Team Two is about to land from Norfolk with equipment, so you should not be on the ground long."

Peter responded, "Thanks, do you have an equipment list I can review?"

"Sorry sir, I wasn't given any more information. I imagine you'll have to sign for everything with the SEALs."

"Okay, fair enough." Peter had worked with the CIA before and understood that they compartmentalized mission information better than anyone. The driver only provided transportation. He knew nothing about the mission and wasn't going to ask. The rest of the ride was silent.

At Andrews, the security guard waived them through and the driver knew the way to a set of hangers that were isolated from the others. In front of one was a C17 cargo transport and a C130 Hercules. Both aircraft were parked together with their loading ramps down. Several men in fatigues, Navy SEALS, were moving equipment from the C130 to the larger C17.

As the car stopped near the hanger, the C17 had one engine idling, producing power to start the other engines. As Peter removed his gear, the driver instructed him to report to the commander in charge of the SEALS, and then drove away. There were no written orders. He handed Peter a sealed package with instructions to open it once aboard a submarine in the Persian Gulf. He thanked the driver and walked away from the car.

Approaching the C17 ramp, an athletic man in his mid-thirties jumped from the side and approached Peter with a hand extended to help with his bag. "How are you, sir? My name is Commander Jack Growley. I'm the CO of ST2. Let's get you aboard."

"Thanks, Commander. How soon will we lift off?"

"Most of the equipment is aboard. My men and the flight crew are securing everything now, so we should be wheels up in less than ten minutes. I'll go over the equipment list with you in the air, and my men will show you how to operate everything."

"Great. Let's get aboard."

The C17 Globemaster III was the newest transport aircraft in the Air Force. It seats 102 people, plus the aircrew. Additionally, it can carry 170,000 pounds of cargo, flying at five hundred miles per hour above forty thousand feet. It can fly around the world with in-flight refueling capability.

After stowing his bag, the Commander called one of his men over. "Major Shields, this is Chief Mike Johnson, our platoon noncom. He will review the checklist with you once we reach cruising altitude, and then have you sign for the equipment. After that, his men will lead you through the operation of the mini-sub."

Peter extended a hand to the Chief, "Good to meet you Chief. We'll talk once we're in the air."

"Roger that, sir. Welcome aboard."

In minutes, everyone was seated and the plane began to roll. After liftoff, heading south, the airplane banked, turning to the east while continuing to accelerate in its climb. Four forty-thousand-pound thrust jet engines provided immense power aboard the huge transport.

The most impressive piece of equipment lashed to the cargo deck was the Advanced SEAL Delivery System (ASDS), which was a midget submarine used as a covert insertion platform. The ASDS was designed to ride atop an attack submarine until it was launched within fifty miles of the shoreline. From launch, it could travel at about ten miles per hour under battery power with a crew of two people and up to sixteen SEALS aboard.

As the Globemaster leveled in darkness above the Atlantic, Chief Johnson moved next to Peter to review the equipment list. "Sir, we have most of the gear stowed aboard the ASDS. Here's a list for you to review. We can go through it line by line before you sign for it, or we can start orienting you to the boat controls. Two of my men will drive it for insertion and recovery, but you should also know how it operates. I'll also send two of my SEALS to help get your gear ashore in country."

"Thanks, Chief. I don't need to see all the gear now, but would like to take a general overview, then learn about the sub."

"Right, sir. If you'll climb through the diver's hatch on top, I'll have one of my petty officers show you how the controls work."

For the next two hours, Peter received a course in submarine operation and checked the gear. After everything was completed, he went back to his seat for rest. For the next few days, he would get very little sleep, so rest at any time was important. The SEALS also rested.

The flight took eleven hours with a brief fuel stop in the Azores. It was dusk as the C17 landed at Prince Sultan Air Base, eighty kilometers south of Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. As the giant cargo plane taxied up to a darkened hanger, there was an Army flatbed truck waiting. The engines were still winding down as the cargo door opened and the small submarine, draped in camouflage netting, began moving on its motorized carrier toward the truck. A mobile crane system moved along the row of hangers to load the vehicle aboard the truck. This was all accomplished in darkness.

Within twenty minutes of arrival, the convoy, consisting of the equipment truck and two HMMWVs were leaving the base en route to AL Dammam, a Saudi seaport on the Persian Gulf.

The road trip to AL Dammam took eight hours and was uneventful, traveling across the desert highway at night. Once again, the military passengers dozed.

It was pre-dawn when the truck pulled out to the end of a commercial fishing wharf where the USS Connecticut, a Seawolf class attack submarine, was waiting. All Seawolf's are equipped to carry the ASDS vehicle on its rear deck. Using one of the gigantic cargo cranes on the wharf, it took less than ten minutes to secure the mini-sub to the back of the attack boat. While the transfer was undertaken, Peter and the SEAL team went aboard Connecticut, where they were invited to the wardroom to meet the Captain. CDR Mark David had been in the Navy for nineteen years and was the fourth officer commander of the ship, commissioned in 1997. This mission would be his last in charge of an attack boat before moving to SUBLANT as a full Captain.

Greeting the SEAL team, he shook hands with Commander Growley, who introduced Major Shields, U.S. Army, who was still in civilian clothes and needed a shower when he shook hands with the Captain. "It's a pleasure to meet you, sir."

In jest, Commander David said, "Major, you appear to be out of uniform."

"Yes, sir. I'm on vacation."

They all chuckled. The boat Captain was curious about the mission, but was only given partial information. His need to know began and ended with the deposition and recovery of the mini-submarine. From the coordinates, he knew the operation was inside Iran, but that was all he knew.

David said, "Gents, I want you to make yourselves at home. The Chief of the boat will show you to the SEAL team quarters. Let me or any of my crew know if you need anything. I need to get up topside as we set the Sea Detail. We will be getting underway shortly and will be submerged for about fifteen hours before reaching the drop off point.

Submarines are cramped vessels with no windows. Peter disliked being encased in a metal coffin below the surface of the ocean. He followed the team to the birthing area set up for SEALS and their special equipment. Once in the space, all were assigned bunks for at least eight hours sleep. After traveling for almost twenty-four hours, he had a raging headache. He stowed his bag and lay on the bunk, feeling the ship rock as it began to depart. Moving on the surface leaving port, swells lifted and lowered the boat in rhythmic fashion. Then, following a series of signals and announcements, the sub slid beneath the waves where the ride smoothed out. To his amazement, he was able to sleep. His dreams had been the same since climbing aboard the Globemaster at Andrews. Rachael was at the top of her stairs inviting him up.

### Danger Zone

After five hours of rest, Peter went to his duffle bag for a change of clothing and his shaving kit. He also took his own bright green towel and walked forward toward the men's shower. Like everything aboard a submarine, the shower stall was a compact stainless steel space with a sign on the entry, limiting all showers to five minutes or less. The water controls were confusing and he wasted the first minute trying to understand the plumbing. To his delight, the hot water was instantaneous, so with quick actions, he was able to wash during the remaining four minutes.

After returning to the team's compartment, the floor was covered with scuba tanks, regulators and wet suits. Gear was being checked before being stored aboard the ASDS. Jack Growley asked him if he had any questions before the team loaded aboard the mini-sub. Peter responded, "I don't think so, Commander. This is all pretty familiar. It's a simple op once I'm on the ground. Just keep listening for my phone call. I can't judge precisely, but it should be forty-eight to seventy-two hours before I need to be picked up."

"Okay, Peter. Look, I'm wishing you the best possible luck."

"Thanks, Jack. Maybe I'll bring you guys a souvenir."

"From the equipment list, I'm expecting your souvenir to be walking and talking."

"Let's hope so."

With that exchange, four members of the team and Peter began organizing and checking equipment. Before departing, he sat on his bunk and opened the package from the CIA driver at Andrews. Inside was a passport with appropriate visas and immigration stamps from various Arab states. All were familiar to him. Most recently, it was stamped at the Tehran International Airport. There was also a stack of Iranian rials and U.S. dollars. There were also tourist maps and a brochure to the Fadjr International Theatre Festival in Tehran. He was traveling officially as an American producer exploring Asian cultural dances. He didn't know anything about dance, nor speak Farsi. It was common for Americans to be in Tehran, defying U.S. travel restrictions, but they were certainly a minority. There was no information linking him to the foreign minister. It had all been memorized before departing Langley.

There was no way to judge time aboard the submarine. The SEALS were more accustomed to checking their watches than Peter, who preferred using the sky for reference.

About fourteen and a half hours after departing Al Dammam, the ship began slowing for a gentle desent to the seafloor. When it settled on the bottom, there was no sensation of movement or equipment vibration on the ship, but the deck was canted slightly upward toward the bow. It was eerily quiet, except for the people moving the diving equipment using low voices.

Twenty minutes later, dressed in wet suits and scuba gear, the team moved upward and aft to the water-tight hatch under the mini-sub. One of the SEALS climbed a ladder to open the passage into the ASDS. Once the four-man crew was inside, gear was handed up by other team members. Then the hatch was sealed.

Inside the mini-sub there was no room to stand erect. Everyone slumped against the side of the cold pressure hull as two of the SEALS opened valves, pumping compressed air into the buoyancy tanks. There was a slight metallic 'clunk' when the two vessels separated. The ASDS was suspended a few feet above Connecticut when the sound of an electric motor whirred and the crew turned toward the coastline. The sixty-seven horsepower electric motor was moving the vessel toward shallower water. The air inside had a stale dry smell, based on the unique gas mixture, which replaced nitrogen with carbon dioxide and slightly more oxygen. This would prevent decompression sickness.

They maneuvered using instruments for four hours before slowing for a periscope check. Two more checks were needed over the next twenty minutes before the petty officer at the helm pulled a lever, settling to the bottom.

The SEAL team senior NCO instructed Peter, "Sir, we are about half a mile from shore in fifty feet of water. It's after nightfall, so we should be okay when we break the surf. Are you set to go?"

"Let's go. I appreciate the ride men."

Peter entered the diving compartment aft of the crew through a small watertight pressure hatch. A waterproof sled with his clothing and gear was passed through before two of the SEALs entered. Their diving gear was already stowed in the chamber and they needed to help each other mount the scuba tanks in tight quarters. After checking air regulators, the hatch door was sealed shut and the chamber was flooded with icy water.

It was eerie inside the metal box, jammed tightly with men and equipment in absolute darkness feeling the seawater rise around them fast. It was certainly no place for someone afraid of tight, pitch-black, watery spaces. Peter felt like a sardine. It took several seconds for the water entering their wetsuits to warm to body temperature. Once everything was equalized with the outside water pressure, one of the SEALS opened the hatch and they exited the tiny ship. The hatch was small, making it difficult to climb through with scuba gear. The sled was pulled by one of the SEALS who would take turns pulling it while swimming underwater to shore.

In the blackness of night under water, the team could not communicate and had to stay very close together. The lead SEAL used a compass strapped to his arm with fluorescent readouts. Peter and the second SEAL followed his lead. They carried glow sticks that would only be used only if they got separated. It took half an hour to reach the surf line. All three swimmers raised slowly above the swells enough to check the beach. After a few seconds, they pulled their masks down and resumed swimming through the breakers, then crawled slowly onto the beach. Once on land, they removed their flippers and ran about fifty yards inland onto the dry sand. There was no cover if someone was guarding the beach. All remained quiet except for the sound of the breakers and smell of decaying seaweed.

No words were spoken as one of the SEALS opened the sled and Peter began stripping out of his dive gear and into civilian clothes. Just as quickly, the SEALS stowed his gear back in the sled. After less than two minutes, through hand signals, the SEALS said farewell and disappeared again into the sea. Peter would be alone until he returned to this spot in a few days. He remembered Rachael's words about being left alone without him.

### Tourist

Peter had landed less than a mile south of the coastal town of Bushehr, and was traveling with a backpack. He had to avoid being discovered alone outside of the town. In the town, he could blend in with other people on the sidewalks during the traditionally late evening suppertime.

Despite western impressions to the contrary, Iran is a country of legendary hospitality. Even as the holder of an American passport, he felt at ease. Americans were not looked upon favorably, but they could avoid confrontation by remaining docile and away from public gatherings. Once inside the city boundaries near the harbor, he walked a few blocks to the Delvar Hotel. He didn't have a map or know anything about this hotel, except it was large and doing a robust business. Maintaining distance from other people to avoid dialogue, he approached a bellman, requesting a taxi. Fortunately, English was spoken universally and non-native Americans do not recognize dialects.

Within seconds, an immaculate white Mercedes arrived, and the bellman opened the back door. Peter handed the man two one-thousand rial notes, about twenty cents in U.S. dollars. The man tipped his hat as Peter requested a ride to the train station. The station turned out to be only a few blocks away, which irritated the driver, but Peter paid more than the meter amount.

At the station, he bought a ticket for Tehran using a local credit card provided in his package. There were police and a few military personnel in transit, but the security seemed far more relaxed than in the U.S.. Peter felt comfortable ordering tea from a vendor and sitting on a bench. He bought a German magazine. The next direct train to Tehran left in less than two hours, so he tried to sit inconspicuously, avoiding all conversation. After one hour, he was feeling calm when a stranger approached saying something in German. Peter looked up and smiled, signaling that he didn't speak the language, whereupon the man switched to English. Peter could not avoid him.

For the rest of the time waiting for the train, he spoke with the German. When Peter told him he was a theatrical producer, the German became enthralled. Fortunately, the discussion remained amicable and the German was sensitive enough to avoid discussing anything about America. Time passed quickly and no security police were present on the platform before the train arrived.

The man insisted on sitting with Peter on the train ride north, which would take almost eight hours. The coach they were riding in was made in Italy and the engine was from Germany. The ride was fast and comfortable. Several minutes after departure, Peter excused himself and pretended to sleep, while the German read and listen to his portable CD player. Having the German accompany him gave Peter an additional measure of comfort. The ride to Tehran was uneventful.

When they arrived, the German asked where Peter was staying and suggested the hotel where he had a reservation. Peter made an excuse and thanked the man for several hours of pleasant conversation, but before the German could extend the dialogue, Peter turned and was walking away from the station.

Tehran is an enormous city of fourteen million people. Police or military personnel were very scarce. Traffic was as unruly as most Middle Eastern locations, and the pedestrians are very cautious. Cars produced tons of pollution, particularly in the Southern part of the city that was at a lower elevation than the North. It was extremely hot, but the dry air actually felt more comfortable than Washington.

The city appeared prosperous. From experience, he knew it was divided between the wealthy northern part, and the poor southern sectors. Missing from the streets were the homeless citizens seen in U.S. cities.

There was no overabundance of police. Illegal behaviors are severely punished under Islamic laws, so people were well behaved on the streets. Peter had been there before and felt at ease walking around public areas. Underlying the apparent tranquility was a system that would torture and kill him if his true identity were discovered. This sobering thought never left his mind.

Outside Tehran's central train station, there was a line of taxis. A dispatcher opened the rear door of an older Vauxall in pristine condition. Inside, Peter instructed the driver to take him to the Evin Hotel on the Vanak Expressway. The agency had made reservations for Tim Watts, the name on his passport. If anyone did a Google search using this name associated with theatrical productions, there would be many responses.

The drive across the city in dense traffic took more than an hour. The advantage of the Evin was its location in the northern sector, closer to the Ministerial residences. Peter would have preferred a more obscure place, but the few Americans that went to Iran were expected to stay in the best hotels.

He paid the driver a nice tip, American style. The Evin was a superior four-star hotel located near the International Trade Fair, 30 minutes from the airport, and 15 minutes from the city center. It was an ideal location.

It was midday when Peter checked in. The hotel kept his passport in exchange for the room key as was customary throughout the Middle East. If the police questioned him, they would confirm his credentials by contacting the hotel. The receptionist took an imprint of his credit card and Peter carried his own backpack to the room without bellhop assistance. Within minutes, Iranian authorities had received his registration information from the hotel. Many of the domestic workers were also employed by the government.

Once in the room, he was pleased to find a DSL hookup for his computer. It was very slow by U.S. standards, but gave him some ability to communicate and search for information besides his cellphone. His body clock was confused, and he had no desire to sleep. It took almost thirty minutes to complete the search for email messages. There were none. He needed to kill some time, so he changed into swim trunks and went to the outdoor pool for some quick laps to help him relax and exercise his muscles. There was no one else at the pool during the hottest part of the day, so the scars on his body wouldn't draw attention. The water was refreshing as he dove into the deep end. Thirty minutes later, he exited after swimming about a mile, toweled dry, and returned to his room.

During the midafternoon, Peter took the metro train north to the Sa'ad Abad Museum complex, popular with tourists. It was also located near the Ministerial residences in the northern part of the city. Exiting the train on Eqenlab Avenue, he was facing the Museums, surrounded by an immense traffic circle and wide converging boulevards. It was bright and hot as he picked up a tourist map from a kiosk. The sidewalks and piazzas were filled with people who seemed dynamic, courteous and hospitable. It had been four years since his last foray when the people seemed more servile and fatalistic. Attitudes had been improving since the end of their long war with Iraq and the American invasion leading to the death of Saddam Hussein. There were far fewer people in uniforms this time and the only police he could see were controlling traffic at major intersections. Except for the abundance of Muslim clothing, this part of Tehran could have been in Venice or Paris.

Iran's laws impose fines for violation of the Islamic dress code. Girls and women who reach maturity must cover their head and body in public except for their hands and feet. Male offenders are fined mainly for western hairstyles, shirts with Western logos, or short sleeves, except for laborers. Peter was surprised to see many girls wearing short pants, token scarves, and light-colored summer dresses. Recently enacted summer provisions defined clothing standards and distinctive emblems to be worn by Jewish, Christian and other religious minorities.

He crossed the avenue and walked across the mall toward one of the museum buildings several hundred yards away. As he approached the building, he diverted to the right with a smaller flow of pedestrians, toward the adjacent street, walking past government buildings leading toward the palatial residences beyond. Minister Abu Qatada lived two blocks north of the museums.

There were large numbers of pedestrians walking along the residential streets, some stopping to admire the huge mansions protected by walls and gates, so Peter drew no special attention when he stopped in front of the Minister's home. There were no obvious police or military present, but there were large cars with official logos in the driveway. After staring for about half a minute, he continued walking north, circling the block before returning to the train and back to his hotel.

### Palace Interloper

In his hotel room, he sent an email message to an innocuous website controlled by the CIA for the attention of Director Lawrence. His laptop was equipped with a special encryption circuit provided by the NSA, so the message would be a meaningless stream of mnemonics to the Iranian intelligence services. His text was cryptic and precise. They had not agreed on an extraction plan before he departed, but he was hopeful that Lawrence had some method of contacting his friend through email or phone to advise him. There was no way for Peter to verify that Abu Qatada would be prepared. Late in the afternoon, he went shopping for clothing, supplies and male grooming items.

Returning to the hotel after stopping for an early dinner, he checked his email and was pleased to read, "Tim, mother will be waiting for you when you get home. She wanted you to know that the care facility has moved her to a larger set of rooms at the southwest corner of the second floor, with a better view of the sunsets. She still likes to go to bed early, so her lights are out after 9:00PM. Hope to hear from you soon, Dad."

That night, the air remained warm and dry with a slight breeze. Peter carried his pack on his back as he left the hotel for the train, to repeat his route from earlier in the day. After passing by the museum complex, he noticed that there were fewer people walking along the secondary streets leading to Abu Qatada's residence. He saw one couple with a dog. He was conspicuous with a backpack, but fortunately, there were no streetlights. They had been removed when Iraqi warplanes had bombed Tehran. The residences all had extensive exterior lighting for security. He tried to remain in the shadows while walking. As he approached the house, auxiliary halogen lighting flooded the big front yard. There were also two guards standing in front of the house. It was difficult for them to see the top of Peter's head beyond the front wall and the backpack was too low to be seen.

He continued walking up the street to the corner beyond the row of mansions, then turned right until reaching the alley behind. There were several lights, but no guards were seen. There were no other people visible. All of the homes seemed to have tall hedgerows in the back disguising the fence, which made it difficult for guards inside the Minister's compound to see into the alley. Peter began walking down the alley close to the fence line, passing three residences before stopping at the yard beyond the Minister's. With Iran's strict adherence to Koranic law, containing severe penalties, major crime was almost non-existent in the city, so there was less vigilance than he expected around official locations. Residential security was lax and there were few night patrols by police, contrary to U.S. practice in large cities.

He stood frozen for several seconds, listening for any sign that people could be nearby before tossing his pack over the wall. Very quickly, he jumped to the top of the stone structure and rolled over and down into a small space between the fence and the tall cypress hedge. He lay still for several seconds. The yard was dark and there was no indication that anyone was outside the house.

Carrying his pack, Peter moved to a stone fence separating the two properties. The Minister's residence had two lights in the back with a single guard. Farther along the side fence, toward the front, the space between both houses was dark. Crouching in the shadows, he moved forward, into the darkened area. There, he reached into his pack and pulled out a coiled rope. Tying one end to the pack, he lowered the bag to the ground on the other side of the fence. Then, with careful footwork and handholds, he climbed until perched on top of the wall. All of his senses were alert while he remained motionless. From six feet up, he leapt into the Minister's compound, absorbing the fall on bent knees and rolling to a stop, almost silently.

He lay on the ground in the darkness, without moving. After a few moments, he pushed into a low crouch and grabbed the pack before moving to the edge of the house fifty feet away. The foundation shrubs were mature, allowing him to conceal himself against the building. The structure was built from sandstone blocks with no mortar lines. There were no features allowing him to climb the walls. Around all of the window wells was an iron railing covering the lower half of the windows. He needed to get to the second floor according to the email message.

Stepping out, he looked up to see the second floor window was dark. Mother had gone to bed early. Peter tied one end of the rope to his belt, and tied the pack about twenty feet from his end. Once secure, he grabbed the bottom rung of the first-floor window railing and pulled up, grabbing the top of the railing. He continued to climb until standing on top of the window rail, and then reached upward to the second-story window. Lifting his weight with one hand, he was able to grab the bottom of the second floor window sill, climbing over the second floor railing. He was vulnerable if someone inside saw his silhouette, or if a guard passed below. It took a moment to become balanced before he moved to one side of the window frame for concealment. He had no weapons and no idea if someone was waiting inside the room behind the glass and curtains.

With careful effort, Peter pressed the center of the window inward to test the locking mechanism. There was none engaged. The floor-length glass sections separated, allowing him to step over the railing and into the room.

Crouching inside, he remained motionless. It was dark in the big room. As he stayed still, listening, he heard the rustle of fabric moving toward him when someone said in a whisper, "Have you come to help me?"

"Yes."

In a rushed low voice, the man said, "Allabu Akbar—God is Great!"

Peter untied the rope from his belt and pulled the pack into the room. Then, he moved closer to the Minister to verify his identity. "Please tell me your name of your best friend in the states."

"My name is Ali Abu Qatada and my friend is Will Lawrence."

"Okay Your Excellency, what is the security like in the house after you go to bed?"

"They leave me alone. I'm too fat to climb out of the second-floor window, so they just sit outside the door all night. I don't know if they look in after I am asleep, but I do not think so."

"All right, you need to get dressed, I brought you some clothes." Peter had seen pictures of the overweight Sheik, but had to guess at everything. He started handing clothes to the fat man.

"What's this, I have not dressed in such things since I attended college in America. These are Christian or Jew clothes!"

"Please, keep your voice down. If you want to live, you will do everything I ask of you -- precisely. Do you understand? God will forgive you."

In a low voice the Minister responded, "Of course, I will follow your instructions, but I cannot approve."

"So sue me, it's the American way."

The Minister put on the pants, shirt and sneakers, looking like a dark Santa on a tropical vacation. As he finished dressing, Peter stuffed the minister's pajamas and some pillows under the covers. It wouldn't deceive anyone looking closely, but it was better than nothing.

He said, "Okay, Look. You're going out the same way I came in. I'm going to use a rope harness, but you must do this silently. Can you manage to climb over the window rail?"

"I, I think so. How will you support me, I am over one hundred forty kilos!"

"Sir, I hope you will get some traction with your feet and I won't have to carry all the weight, but if you slip, I can handle it. You just need to remain silent. If you slip and get hurt, keep it to yourself. Do you understand?"

The Sheik was from a royal bloodline and wasn't used to being talked to like this, but he said nothing in protest. "I understand your instructions."

"Good. Now let's get you tied up."

He began lacing the climbing rope around the Minister's legs and waist, understanding the indignity that the man was feeling. They would be in great peril from this point on until reaching the submarine.

Once the harness was complete, Peter led the minister to the window and helped him straddle the rail before releasing him to climb down. The man looked terrified. Braced against the interior window frame, Peter felt the enormous weight, over three hundred pounds, sliding down the side of the house. After releasing ten feet of rope, there was a loud bang as the fat man's foot struck the window below. He dropped the minister to the ground, expecting to hear a rush of security personnel.

He stood motionless in the open window frame listening for activity inside the house or from the guards outside. He peered down as the minister rolled, trying to stand. He felt like yelling at the slug to remain still, but instead, put the pack on his back and passed the remaining rope through the rail, using the doubled line to descend. As he stepped over the rail, he closed the windows before lowering to the ground. Once there, he held the Minister down for a moment signaling him to remain still and silent.

Peter recovered the rope and coiled it. "Sir, I'm going to climb that wall and pull you up, you will need to try to help climb if you can."

Still smarting from the drop to the ground, the Minister pulled to his feet with Peter's help. Together, they stumbled to the wall. Peter tossed the rope over the top and climbed up the uneven stones. Once on the top, he stood upright to get leverage to help pull the fat man upward. With a heave from above, the Minister began to claw at the stone outcroppings as Peter used his strength to get the man to the top with him. The Minister slipped several times, bruising his legs and bleeding from his fingers and knees. It took over a minute to reach the top of the wall and another one getting him down into the neighbor's grounds.

Once behind the wall, Peter found the gate at the back of the yard leading to the alley, which they would use rather than try to scale another wall. The man was limping and whimpering as they moved. As they passed through the gate, the Minister tugged on Peter's arm while taking deep breaths saying, "My neighbor, my neighbor is away. I know where his car keys are kept. We can use his car to escape."

Peter replied, "They will be using every asset searching the country for you and the roads will be blocked. We're taking the train. We need to get a long start before they discover you're gone."

The Minister looked incredulously at Peter, "My good sir, I do not travel by train. You dress me like a beggar, and now you expect me to share space with cattle? I cannot do it!"

Deliberately harsh, Peter responded, "Look sir, I'm risking my life to help you and you will do exactly as I say, or we'll both hang! Now, sit down for a minute, I have some really bad news for you."

Ali Abu Qatada pursed his lips and looked like he would pout, but sat down awkwardly against the fence in the alley as instructed. As he was lumbering down, Peter removed his backpack and pulled out scissors and a cordless shaver. "Now, we're going to make you look like a Christian."

"You cannot! I beg you, my religious beliefs require that I wear a full beard and short mustache!"

Without responding, Peter went to work scissoring ten inches of whiskers from the beard before finishing the job with the shaver. The Minister's face looked like a moon reflecting in the darkness.

Throwing the hairy remnants over the fence into the bushes, Peter said, "Okay sir, let's get you on your feet and start walking."

He threw the backpack over one shoulder and helped the fat man to his feet. He hoped the minister could walk five blocks to the train station. Abu Qatada was a distinctive person in his native dress and beard, and would be impossible to conceal in public. But the roly-poly Christian with Peter was indistinguishable.

As they rounded the corner at the end of the alley they were alone on the city streets walking toward the museum complex, with the train station on the other side. They were conspicuous as non-Muslims on the streets. As they walked, Peter remained vigilant, looking for any sign of discovery. As they passed onto the mall area of the museums, more people were strolling. It was still dinnertime by local standards. Many of the people were tourists, so they were ignored walking across the Avenue and down the stairway leading to the train. Peter had previously purchased enough tokens for them both to travel to the central station. They sat in a forward seat of the train car, while most of the Muslim passengers avoided looking at them or sitting nearby. The Minister sat stern-faced without saying anything. He was accustomed to people recognizing him and paying respects.

At metro center, they were able to transfer to the main rail lines serving the country. Peter bought two economy-class tickets to Bushehr. This was done to remain inconspicuous, but the Minister was even more agitated than before. As they entered the car with general passengers, Peter selected a seat near the back of the coach with clear vision forward. Once again, the native passengers shunned them. The Minister sat by the window peering out into the darkness as the train pulled beyond the city limits. As the lights dimmed in the compartment, Peter reached into his pack and pulled out a tattered wallet that contained a driver's license and passport for an Iranian Christian who looked similar to the Minister, but much younger. The Minister scoffed again, "I have never driven my own car. This I cannot fake."

"Take these and memorize everything. If you get questioned, it will probably mean the difference between living and dying if you cannot appear genuine."

"I shall be mentioning your insubordination to your superiors when we get to the States."

Peter retorted, "That shall be my pleasure, sir. At least I will have fulfilled my mission. To do otherwise will find you and me together on the gallows, where you can complain to your last breath."

With that, Peter slumped in the seat intending to rest. It would take eight hours to reach the coast and he could only pray that the Minister was not discovered missing.

### Wounded

It was nearly dawn when the train approached Bushehr station. Peter was alert, sitting upright in his seat, looking out of the window. As the train slowed, he pulled his GSM phone from his pocket and dialed eleven digits. After one ring he said, "The package is secure and we are nearly home."

He didn't wait for a response. This was the signal for the SEALS to meet them on the beach. Unfortunately, daylight was beginning to break along the distant mountain ridge. As they began approaching the train station, most people were still dozing, but both Peter and the Minister were looking for signs of danger. As they entered the station, the Minister had a better view farther down the ramp. He bolted upright saying, "Oh mighty Allah, there are soldiers waiting for us."

Peter tried to peer forward, "All right, be calm. You have papers and we don't know if this has anything to do with you."

"You know they are for me! Why else would soldiers be used? I am a dead man and will die having discarded my Muslim beliefs! What have you done to me!"

He was sweating profusely as Peter continued to peer out the window. The train pulled to an abrupt stop and the doors remained closed.

Peter said, "Just sit still and don't panic." For several minutes, no one in the train car moved, but then a slow procession of travelers began passing by their window leaving the train. The soldiers were moving from car to car holding everyone in place, searching for something. He knew they were looking for the man next to him who looked to be on the verge of a heart attack. "Calm down. You're going to get us both killed."

It didn't take long before two soldiers entered their car. One concentrated on the right side and the other on the left. Since Peter and the Minister were in the rear, people ahead were being released while they waited to be questioned. As the soldiers moved through the car, closer to the back, the Minister began turning red with fear. Peter took his hand reassuringly, but was also beginning to realize the deception was doomed.

Finally, both soldiers arrived at the same time, having let everyone else leave the train car. One of them said something in Farsi, which the Minister answered in a shaky voice. Peter said, "I don't speak your language, how about English?"

The second soldier stepped forward, "I am speaking English, we must be seeing your passport."

The Minister had already handed his papers to the first soldier with a shaking hand as Peter produced his. The first one was staring back and forth between the Minister and his passport, contemplating what to do next. The second soldier was about to return Peter's identification when the first one stepped backward and faced the other one, unsure about something. They looked at the two passengers then walked to the front of the coach, turning their backs while engaged in quiet discussion. After a few moments, the first soldier walked back down the aisle and said something to the Minister. When the Minister's voice cracked and he began sobbing, Peter moved. The soldiers were about twenty feet apart when he stood abruptly and pushed past the nearest soldier while screaming at the farther man, "Hey, give me back my papers!"

He continued to move quickly, closing the distance to the soldier in the front. As the other soldier regained his balance, he turned and began chasing Peter while pulling his gun from his holster. It took two bounding steps to grab Shields' shirt by the shoulder. There was about seven feet separating both soldiers when Peter turned around, crushing the pursuer's larynx and then attacking the soldier closer to the door. The man tried to bolt, but Peter grabbed his collar and threw him to the floor of the car, landing with his knee on his sternum while delivering a hard blow to his temple. The first man was gasping on the floor, trying to breathe through a crushed windpipe. Peter went to the back of the car pulling the Minister with him as they hurried off the train.

As they exited, Peter grabbed the back of the Minister's shirt forcing him upright. They walked past other soldiers who assumed they had been released. The fat man got some inquisitive stares, but Peter was able to coax him forward, commenting on "bad food," explaining the Minister's stricken look. At the end of the ramp, the Minister was hyperventilating as Peter forced him down the stairs, onto the sidewalk, walking toward the beach. It was difficult to control the urge to run, but Sheik Abu Qatada would be dead in seconds if they tried. It would only be moments before the dying soldiers were discovered.

At the end of the street, there was a slight bend downhill toward the ocean. Hidden from direct view of the soldiers, Peter began pulling the Minister faster. As they reached the beach, the Iranian was stumbling from fatigue and the sand made it more difficult. He was too heavy to carry over the sand, so Peter moved under his shoulder to help. The Minister slumped, pulling Peter down. "Damn you, get up and carry yourself, I'll leave you here if you don't start walking."

With that admonishment, the fat man stood almost erect and, with Peter's support, started to move forward. It was like trying to run a sack race in soft sand. Peter kept them moving toward the sea, but they had to cover several hundred yards before the footing would improve on wet sand. Somewhere out in the darkened swells, the SEALS would be watching, expecting to time their arrival with Peter's.

The sand hardened as they approached the surf line. Peter's lungs felt like they would burst. He was carrying most of the weight of them both. He was about to collapse when two Navy SEALS broke from the surf and sprinted for them pulling the sled. Peter dropped to his knees in exhaustion. As the SEALS grabbed the Minister, one of them thrust his MP5 assault weapon into Peter's hands. Peter had not been looking backward, but the SEALS had seen a line of Iranian soldiers heading onto the beach in pursuit.

They were working on the Minister to get him into a wetsuit and oxygen re-breather when the first shots struck sand near them. Peter had not started to prepare for the swim when he whirled. The MP5 was deadly at close range but could not match the range of military rifles shooting back. Fortunately, the Iranians were stumbling through the sand trying to get closer, firing on the move. Their aim was poor. One of the SEALS joined Peter in firing position, waiting for the enemy to get within range of their nine-millimeter weapons. The soldiers were getting closer and the Minister was taking too long to prepare, so Peter ordered the second SEAL to assist. He fired a volley toward the Iranians, freezing them in place momentarily.

As the soldiers took up firing positions and scurried for cover, the SEALS yelled at Peter to get his gear on, but he needed to keep firing back. He wheeled in his position and yelled to the SEALS. "Go. Go!"

"No sir. We will cover while you move."

"Forget it, they're too close. I'll cover. Get the hell out of here!"

The SEALS each grabbed the Minister and ran, dragging him into the surf.

One yelled back, "We'll wait outbound!"

Peter lifted his left fist in acknowledgment without turning and resumed firing at the soldiers, who now had steady firing positions. Bullets strafed all around him as he dove headfirst into the hard sand. There was no cover!

Looking back over his shoulder, the last flipper disappeared under a wave. It was still early dawn and the black water provided concealment.

He fired until his magazine was empty to suppress the enemy, then jumped to his feet and ran to the ocean, thrusting the weapon out to sea. Knee deep in the surf, he dove in, but the water was too shallow for cover. Bullets smashed into the sea near him and he could hear them streak past his head. He swam with all his strength until reaching the first line of breakers, when he felt a massive blow and searing pain between his shoulder blades. He kept clawing at the shallow water -- he imagined Rachael ahead of him.

In three feet, he jackknifed and started stroking underwater. Somewhere beyond the surf in the blackened ocean, his team was waiting. He was not sure how badly he was wounded. He was swimming for his life and needed to breathe!

He shot out of the water like a porpoise, gulping one gigantic lungful of air before submerging again. It wasn't enough! Carbon dioxide was building in his bloodstream and he needed to take several breaths to clear it, but the soldiers were already rushing into the surf near him, firing into the water. As his lungs screamed, he pulled even harder to gain distance. He had no swim gear and the water was ice cold to his skin. The clothing was slowing him down. He was wounded and his vision dimmed; he could hear the bullets piercing the surface all around him. He gave one last mighty tug underwater before blacking out. His last thought was of her.

Minutes later, a dull consciousness returned. Peter, with his head cradled in someone's arm, was being pulled under water. There was a mouthpiece in his teeth and a regulator was set to free-flow air. One of the SEALS had stayed behind watching his escape and rescued him. Peter could only see blackness all around and was freezing, but he was alive!

After about a minute of assisted underwater swimming, he tapped the swimmer's elbow, signaling his ability to swim on his own. They were in ten feet of water with little sunlight above, but it was safe enough to stop, while he mounted a breathing device over his shoulders. As he strapped on the tank, the Navy man swam behind him, checking Peter's wound. When he moved back in front of Peter, he signaled that the wound was okay. Peter still had no facemask, but he could discern the hand signal. Together, they swam another hundred yards while the two SEALS used clickers to navigate back together. Even in the darkness, they were able to rendezvous and continue out to sea toward the submarine. Peter was given a facemask to see better, but rejected the wet suit, fearing too much time would be lost. He could survive the cold now that they were hidden underwater.

As they swam together, Peter was amazed to see how agile the fat man looked underwater. As they neared the mini-submarine, surface propeller noise could be heard. The Iranian Navy kept a small fleet of fast patrol boats at the port of Bushehr for littoral (shallow water) warfare. Patrol boats passed overhead, back and forth, searching for an acoustic signal from the invaders. In the distance, the team aboard the mini-sub heard active sonar pinging from the surface ships. If the mini-sub were located, the water was too shallow to dive and they could not outrun an attack.

Reaching the mini-sub, the Navy men got Abu Qatada and Peter into the dive chamber first. It took about five minutes to get both sets of men aboard. During the chamber operation, noise from the high-pressure air and purging operations could disclose their location. As Peter and the Abu Qatada tumbled inside the hull, he told the minister to sit still and be silent. The Minister registered terror of the enclosed space and did exactly as told while whimpering silently. When the SEALS were aboard, everyone was silent for several seconds as the ships passed repeatedly overhead, trying to confirm their location. Some distance away, there was an underwater explosion, probably made by a depth charge. They remained frozen in place.

One of the SEALS gestured for Peter to lie flat on the deck, and applied a battle dressing to his wound without saying a work. Silence was their only defense. After several more minutes, the surface noise shifted. The senior NCO ordered the coxswain to maneuver to "mother" before they ran out of oxygen. The SEALS had been stationed offshore for almost twenty hours waiting for Peter's return, so they blew water from the ballast tanks and began maneuvering out to sea. They moved at half speed to keep propeller noise low. All crewmen remained in swim gear with re-breathers, just in case the ship was hit.

They had to stop twice as surface ships approached. The progress to Connecticut was painfully slow. After hours of evasion, the crew fired a directional pinger to signal Connecticut of their position. One of the surface combatants detected the signal, and began using active sonar to locate them. Inside the ASDS, the men were rattled by the powerful underwater acoustic blasts.

The mini-sub stopped all propulsion, not wanting to draw the surface fleet to Connecticut. There was visible distress on the Minister's face. They all knew the active sonar could "paint" a precise location of their boat for the attackers. The mini-sub was defenseless, relying solely on stealth to survive.

As they lay motionless, suspended in darkness, the minister was reciting silent prayers. The pinging got nearer. Then there was an enormous explosion that rocked them violently, but caused no damage. It was unlikely that the Iranians would miss with a depth charge at close range, yet they were alive. Almost as quickly, they noticed the pinging had stopped. Connecticut had fired a MK48 homing torpedo at the attack boat, vaporizing it. The noise and secondary explosions and fire on the surface made the mini-sub motor undetectable.

When the SEALS reached the approximate pickup point, the coxswain fired one low-level "ping," that Connecticut answered. This served as an invitation to dock with the larger ship, which was accomplished in less than five minutes. Immediately after securing the small sub and extracting personnel, Connecticut was moving at flank speed toward the deep water of the gulf.

Aboard Connecticut, Peter was taken to sickbay. A 7.62 millimeter rifle bullet had ripped laterally across his back between his shoulder blades. It would leave a long scar, but the ship's doctor was an experienced surgeon who sutured the wound with stitches close together. Peter was given a local anesthetic and went into deep sleep for several hours, helped by antibiotics and pain killers.

Awakened, he found his duffle bag next to his bunk, so he dressed in fatigues for the first time since leaving Washington. It felt good to be back in uniform.

### Freedom Flight

The return to Washington was uneventful. Peter stayed in sickbay on the submarine cruise to Al Dammam. From there, the SEALS carried his gear aboard a waiting HH-60 Blackhawk helicopter waiting on the pier and helped him aboard. He was in pain, but mobile, and in good spirits after the successful rescue. Minister Abu Qatada remained cordial and seemed appreciative of Peter's effort. The antibiotics and sleep deprivation kept Peter from speaking a great deal, but the SEALS remained hyper through the flight to Prince Sultan Air Base. At Riyadh, they transferred to a CIA-chartered Boeing 767 aircraft, departing for Andrews. Some of the SEAL team remained behind to load the ASDS aboard another C17. All the team members involved in the beach rescue rode home in the relative comfort of the commercial jet. Commander Growley stayed with the ASDS.

In flight, Peter rested for a short time before the Minister sat down next to him saying, "You know, I know your name is Peter, but we've never been formally introduced. It would be my honor if you would accept my gratitude and tell me a bit about yourself. Incidentally, my name is Ali Abu Qatada, and I would like you to call me Ali." The Minister extended his hand.

Peter was unable to twist toward the man, but he extended his hand a short distance saying, "Thank you, sir...Ali. My name is Peter Shields and I'm a Major in the Army National Guard, on loan to the CIA."

"May I call you Peter?"

"Sure. Yes, of course!"

"Peter, you saved my life and I will forever be grateful. You risked your life in the process, which is overwhelming to me. So, thank you, and please accept me as a friend for life. I cannot repay you in kind, but if there is ever anything I can do for you, my indebtedness is limitless."

The conversation ended as the CIA escorts moved the Minister away from the military personnel for further interrogation. Peter felt renewed. He walked to the front of the airplane where some of the CIA security personnel were stationed and asked if there was a radiophone he could use. The team was eager to help him any way possible and led him to the radio compartment, which contained sophisticated communications equipment. One of the men sat for a moment in front of a satellite terminal dialing some preliminary access numbers. When connection was made, he stood and invited Peter to sit at the terminal, which had an ordinary phone handset attached. He told Peter that it was all set to operate like a normal touch-tone phone and all he had to do was dial the number, starting with the country code. The CIA man exited, pulling the privacy curtain closed.

As Peter scanned the console, there was a global time clock and it was four o'clock in the morning in Washington. He dialed Rachael at home, knowing she was still asleep. After four rings, her voice sounded tenuous, "Hello."

"Rachael, it's me."

"Peter! Oh Peter. Where are you---how are you?"

"I'm a little dinged up, but nothing life threatening. I'm in the air now coming home."

"Oh sweetheart, when do you land? Where do you land?

"We'll be at Andrews in about ten hours."

"I'll be there for you. Will you be all done? Can you come home with me?"

"Yeah, I'll come home with you. Can I make a special request?"

"Sure, what?"

"I'd like a big steak!"

"You got it soldier! Now, how badly injured are you?"

"Well, I've got a new interstate across my back, but it could have been worse. I'll be checking into the hospital tonight, but it's just to control infection and watch out for blood clots. We can have a few hours together."

"How long will you be there?"

"Probably just a few days."

"Can you take some time off after that? I can take some vacation!"

"I'll have to debrief with the team, which could take a few days. You'll be part of that. Then we can go over to the Eastern Shore to some quiet B&B. How does that sound?"

"Great! Oh, Peter, I love you! I was so worried about you. I felt awful about some of the things I said when you volunteered to go. Please forgive me."

He suddenly felt tired. Hearing her voice relaxed him for the first time in days. He wanted to savor the moment, but also felt ready to collapse.

"Sweetheart, all I thought about was loving you. It sustained me."

She was quiet for a few moments, and he imagined her crying. He said, "Rachael, I love you and I want to spend some time with you to talk about our future. Is that all right with you?"

"Yes, Peter. Yes." She couldn't say more.

"Okay, honey, I need to rest now, but I'll see you at Andrews. I love you more than anything."

"I love you, Peter."

They said goodbye and he hung up the phone. His body was collapsing and was loaded with drugs. He needed sleep. As he exited the communications space, the CIA personnel tried not to stare at him, but his exploits of the last few days had engendered admiration that was hard to conceal. One of them asked if he would be more comfortable at the very front of the compartment in one of the sleeper beds. Peter could not refuse.

He slept soundly in spite of the severe throbbing in his back. He had taken several pills as prescribed. One of the CIA agents woke him as gently as she could when it was time to prepare for landing.

He felt dirty and unshaven, so the team requested the pilot to do a "fly around" while Peter refreshed himself. It was difficult with the bandage constraints, but he managed to look presentable before the plane made its landing approach to Andrews. He knew the treatment was extraordinary for the crew to alter a flight plan in the Washington area, and it was appreciated.

Rachael was waiting at the parking lot near the CIA hangers when the plane touched down. She could not pass through the gate to go to the plane, but Peter could see her as they parked. Before the door was opened, one of the CIA men asked him to remain aboard until the Minister was removed, and that the SEALS had asked to talk with him while still on board.

As the Minister walked forward with the CIA escorts, he stopped to see Peter saying, "Major. Peter. Thank you, and I can assure you we'll be seeing each other again soon."

They shook hands and the group deplaned down a stair to several dark Chevy Suburbans. He was watching the caravan drive away, when the SEALS came up to his seat. Chief Johnson said, "Major, the Commander wanted us to give you this," handing Peter a SEAL Team 2 shoulder patch.

Peter took it with pride. The Navy SEALS are a tight fraternity and he responded shaking Johnson's hand, "Chief, it was an honor to work with you guys. I would be dead right now if your team had taken the safe way out. Your man risked his life to save me. I will value this patch forever."

"We're honored to have you as a brother, sir." After extending his hand again, the Chief departed and each man said farewell. As the last man stepped through the door, the Chief hollered back, "Come see us in Little Creek when you can!"

Peter yelled back, "You know it!" He was the last passenger to leave. One of the SEALS had carried his duffle bag off the plane and over to the gate by the parking lot. Peter just needed to walk down the stairs to be with Rachael. He felt like he was leaving another world, one that had been his for years. As he stepped carefully down the stairs, Rachael was waving from a hundred feet away. The senior CIA agent had stayed at the bottom of the ladder to say goodbye, "Major, it was a pleasure to know you. Director Lawrence wanted me to express his personal thanks and to tell you that he would meet with you as soon as you're well enough." They shook hands and the agent walked away.

Peter looked at Rachael and attempted to run toward her, but stumbled. He had been immobile for so long that he had not realized how severe his wound was. They were expecting him at the hospital that afternoon, but he planned to spend time with her first. Regaining his balance, he walked erect toward the gate. She looked radiant.

The gate opened and she rushed to him throwing her arms around him as they embraced passionately. Her hands squeezed his bandages, causing a small trickle of tears from his eyes. She sensed his pain immediately, "Oh, Peter, I'm sorry! I can feel your bandages. They've got your whole upper body wrapped up!"

He took several deep breaths saying, "Yeah, well they were running a special on tape. Let's go to your car, I need to sit down. God, you look great!"

He tried to bend over for his bag, but had to keep upright, using his legs to bend down.

She said, "No, you don't. I can carry that, you just hold on to me and walk this way."

They got to the car and Peter slipped gingerly into the passenger side. After putting his bag in the back seat, Rachael said, "You're hurt worse than I thought. We need to go straight to the hospital. General Simmons has them all prepped."

"No, I want to be with you for a while. I promise not to die."

As they departed the main gate at Andrews, Rachael turned south, toward the Capital. The hospital was north of the base.

That night, they had a quiet steak dinner together, just savoring each other's company. Then after a few hours, she took him to the hospital, arriving at midnight and the staff had him in a bed with intravenous medications flowing in less than ten minutes. Rachael was with him while they got him settled.

After the first attending doctor examined him, she asked to talk to him in the corridor, "Doctor, how badly is he wounded?"

"Are you his wife?"

"No, I'm his fiancée," which was stretching the truth temporarily.

The doctor explained, "All right, he has a deep laceration across his back from his lower right side to the upper left. A bullet cut through the contour of his body leaving deep gorges and split ribs in some places. They missed his spine, but a centimeter lower would have paralyzed him. He was amazingly lucky.

"He'll be here for a few days at least while we monitor his blood count. Bullets are dirty and the emergency treatment on the submarine probably missed some fragments. We're mostly concerned about infection."

"Will he be normal after this?"

"I should think so, if we can keep infection out. He'll have a dandy scar though."

"I don't care about that, I just want him home with me."

"I know, ma'am. We'll take good care of him. A lot of high-level people are interested in his recovery."

### Refuge

Minister Ali Abu Qatada sat comfortably in the back of an armored Suburban, converted to meet Level B6 ballistic protection. Three identical black cars with dark tinted glass moved in convoy as they departed Andrews AFB, heading west on the Capital Beltway, I-295. He looked out the window, savoring his return to America after thirty years.

His car had three men with him, all from the CIA. The passenger in the front seat turned to him and said, "Sir, we are heading to a secure base called Vint Hill Farms. When we get there, you will have several hours to rest and refresh yourself. It's a completely secret facility. Sometime tomorrow, Director Lawrence will visit you. So, please relax and we'll be there in a little over an hour."

"Thank you," was all he said. He continued looking out the window feeling good. The CIA had provided him a travel kit aboard the airplane, so he felt content. He closed his eyes and relived the harrowing adventure he had been through escaping from Iran.

When they arrived at "the farm," they passed through layers of security. The complex was divided into several segments used by different intelligence agencies. The caravan drove for several miles along a small tree-lined road that undulated over small foothills and then turned into a long unmarked driveway leading to a small ranch house.

The Minister's car pulled into an attached garage, and the electric door closed before anyone left the car. Once inside the house, agents explained the security procedures. He would be getting a new identity as an American. After taking some general measurements for clothing, meals were to be delivered and he was asked about any dietary preferences. The kitchen was otherwise completely stocked. Two cars of agents would remain parked in the driveway at all times, but he would have the house to himself. It was all handled efficiently and he found himself alone in the house within fifteen minutes of arrival.

### Ali and Will

Ali Abu Qatada had a fortunate upbringing. As a youngster, he lived in Europe and the United States as the son of an Iranian diplomat. In 1975, he enrolled at the University of California, Berkeley, majoring in business, with a special interest in economics and finance. He enjoyed campus life and felt comfortable with the large population of fellow Iranians at the University. He made a few American friends and was active in the Muslim Studies Group on campus, which attracted students from all cultures interested in the emerging Middle East. Berkeley had more than a hundred Iranian students at the time. Sixty percent were women under the Shah's progressive doctrine to elevate them to equal economic and social stature as men.

Studying economics, he began to form an understanding of the distinctions between cultural, social and political viewpoints. His personal feelings became clearer from the constant intellectual stimulation provided on campus. He understood his Muslim roots and that crystallized his position as a fundamentalist. He favored the Iranian men as companions, shunning the women, who were living temporarily under the illusion of equality afforded by the Americans.

He graduated in 1979, shortly after the fundamentalist uprising sent the Shah into hiding and brought the return of their greatest spiritual leader. Seventy-eight year old Ayatollah (meaning Gift of God) Rubollah Khomeini returned to Iran after more than a decade in exile. He had been imprisoned by the Shah in 1963 for his opposition to reforms and was expelled the following year to Iraq. He spent the last few months of his exile in Paris, from where he fomented the revolution against the Shah.

Ali and his family were expelled by the U.S. State Department following the fall of the Shah, a U.S. puppet, in 1979. Ali was forever embittered by the way his family was treated by the Americans and for not being able to continue his education. For the next two decades his ideology fermented. As a western-educated man in the new government, he rose to high prominence over two decades. He was currently the Minister of Economic Affairs and Finance, but like many officials, also worked with the Minister of Intelligence and Security. For years after his expulsion, he refused to acknowledge any Americans as friends, but as time passed and his positions in government became globally oriented, this changed. In 1992, with the new Internet accessible to certain key government officials, he located his former classmate, William (Will) Lawrence, whom he had tutored years earlier in the Muslim Studies Group. Will was a mid-level government employee at the time. Over the years since then, their correspondence and friendship increased. They reunited briefly in Russia, when both were in Moscow for different official dealings.

Willy Lawrence was a carefree California kid growing up in the boom era of expansion in Orange County, Southern California. His father was a carpenter in the 1960's who began speculating in custom home building late in the decade. By 1970, his company was growing as a developer of production "tract" homes. Willy grew up in Laguna Beach and spent most of his free time surfing the coastline and living the beach boy existance. His father's emerging wealth afforded Willy nice cars and the freedom to avoid working as a youth. He had no particular ambitions and was generally lazy, except in school. His parents allowed him to live unencumbered with chores as long as his grades were good. He went to private schools and had frequent tutors. His SAT scores were excellent, and he had no problem getting admitted to Berkeley.

At the university, he didn't have any idea what to study, so his first two years were spent "exploring" different majors. In his junior year, he settled on history as a major and was fascinated with the Middle East. His father had claimed distant kinship with Thomas Edward Lawrence, "Lawrence of Arabia." T.E. Lawrence was famous for his liaison role during the Arab Revolt of 1916-18. He had a vivid personality and was a prolific writer with an extraordinary breadth of tribal associations. He was widely regarded as the architect of the modern Middle East.

When Willy, by then "Will," settled on his major, it became an obsession that continued throughout his professional life. At Berkeley, he joined the Muslim Studies Group. He was an oddity at first since he was an "infidel," but he was able to demonstrate his sincere eagerness to understand their culture, as T.E. Lawrence had done sixty years earlier. He felt attached to Ali Qatada who was a senior and felt heartbroken when Ali's family was expelled from the country.

After graduation, Will took a job in the State Department hoping someday to join the diplomatic corps and gain assignment to an Arab state. He rose to manage the Saudi Arabia "desk" responsible for approving export licenses and issuing travel advisories. When a position with the Central Intelligence Agency became available, he liked the job description and was accepted for the position.

In November 1979, he was monitoring the student revolts in Iran that led to the taking of fifty-two American hostages from the embassy in Tehran. Will felt he could get them released if he were allowed to travel to Iran. His request was denied, but his willingness to take personal risks was noted and contributed to his rise through various directorates. He had several assignments overseas and then, in 2004, he was promoted to Deputy Director of Operations (DDO).

His personal relationship with Ali Qatada had contributed greatly to his success, but he had started to fear for his friend's safety. Vast improvements in cryptography and electronic surveillance made any communication with Ali dangerous. It was only a matter of time before Iranian intelligence agencies would discover him. Will tried every means possible to have Ali extricated to the U.S., but his superiors had always felt the intelligence value of this "resource" was worth too much.

### Reunion

Ali slept fitfully and awoke at dawn. The phone rang and he heard a familiar voice. "Ali! How are you old friend?"

"I am fine, Will. It is wonderful to be back in America. I am looking forward to our reunion!"

"Good, I'm going to the office early this morning, then will drive down to see you around ten o'clock, if that's okay with you."

"Excellent, Will, I look forward to it!"

Ali Abu Qatada was no longer a Minister in the government of Iran. He was now a private citizen, a fugitive from his homeland.

He turned on the television to watch CNN. For several hours before Will's arrival, he watched for any reference to his escape. There was nothing regarding Iran except another commentary from the U.S. Secretary of State about controlling nuclear proliferation in the Middle East. His departure would probably never be apparent except for the diplomatic community. None of these concerns would rise to national news worthiness.

A little before ten, he turned off the set, and a dark limousine arrived moments later. Ali stood by the front window as three men approached the house. He didn't recognize Will immediately, who was older and heavier than he remembered. One of the CIA men walked ahead and knocked on the door, then opened it for the Director. As Lawrence entered the house, he and Ali embraced.

Lawrence said, "It's been a long time old buddy."

"Yes, my friend, we must somehow make up for time lost. Do I look as old to you as you to me? We were such young men at Berkeley."

They spend several minutes sitting and talking while the other two men went into the Kitchen to make coffee. As the small talk ebbed, Lawrence explained, "Ali, you will remain in this house a few days, maybe a week, until we have your new identity established. After that, you will be moved to a location of your choosing with a retirement plan paid by the U.S. Government."

The Sheik had never married and had no close relatives, so the logistics were simple. He would be granted full U.S. citizenship under a fictitious name, with a social security number.

He continued, "I will be your only contact within the government; any information or advice you wish to share about Iran will only come to me. I hope this is satisfactory."

Ali answered, "Quite so, old friend. I am already feeling as though the yoke of servitude has been lifted from my neck."

The house was small and the men in the kitchen could hear elements of this discussion. When they finished talking about the arrangements, Lawrence suggested that they take a walk in the woods behind the house. The two CIA men were told they would stay at the house.

As they progressed into the forest, Lawrence said, "So, friend, I have fulfilled my bargain."

"Yes things are progressing nicely old chum, so let me put your mind at ease. As soon as I am settled in my new arrangement, we should take a trip together to a wonderful vacation spot in a foreign island location. I promise you that you will return very pleased."

"Ali that is music to my ears."

Over the next week, numerous meetings were held at the house. Ali Abu Qatada was given a U.S. naturalization certificate of citizenship, a passport and a social security card with the name Farid Saberi. He would be known as "Frank" Saberi, living in Arizona, which had a climate similar to his native land. Records were fabricated that showed his parents coming to America in 1975 as diplomats under the Shah, then staying under asylum when the pro-western regime was toppled by Islamic fundamentalists in 1979. Both of Frank's parents were deceased and he had become a naturalized citizen in 1982. His Berkeley diploma was altered to reflect his new name.

Within a week after receiving his new identity, he was flown from Vint Hill to Davis Monthon Air Force Base in Tucson. During the flight, the CIA gave him Frank Saberi's driver's license showing his new address in a condominium in Scottsdale. He was a retired civil servant with a nice income provided by the government. When the plane landed, Frank and one of the CIA escorts drove north to his new home in his new Honda Accord, purchased in Scottsdale under Frank's name. In Iran, he had only driven himself occasionally for amusement, so he would need to practice. En route from Tucson, the CIA agent rehearsed his story over and over. His address was a new condominium complex, so he was no more of a standout than any other owners.

For six more weeks, he communicated with Lawrence on various matters until both were content that he was living a normal American life, free from security worries. No mention of the Minister's fate was ever revealed by the Iranian government, but the world diplomatic community recognized his absence. It was time to withdraw CIA protection personnel and live a normal life. He had altered his appearance by remaining clean shaven and cutting his hair differently. After Lasik eye surgery and a personal fitness program that helped lose fifty pounds, Ali Abu Qatada was no longer discernable.

Content that he could travel inconspicuously, Frank Saberi sent a brief email to his friend Will. "I want to take a Caribbean vacation very soon. Would you like to come also?"

Within two hours, there was a response, "I need some time off, and the Caribbean would be perfect!"

Frank responded, "Smashing! I'll make all the arrangements for both of us. I have but one more favor to ask of you."

### Recovery

Rachael stayed at the hospital for several days while Peter was being treated. He underwent two surgeries to clean the wound and reattach muscle tissue. Each operation caused the recovery process to start over, so he was in the hospital over two weeks before well enough to leave. He had been on intravenous antibiotic treatment the whole time and had been receiving physical therapy to help him regain strength and flexibility in his back.

He hated the idea of rolling to the door in a wheelchair, but couldn't walk the entire distance. He was given a regimen of pills and therapy that would continue for several weeks and then taper off once he regained un-aided mobility. General Simmons allowed Rachael unlimited time to be with him

As he was wheeled to the entrance, she parked her car by the lobby door and helped him into the front seat. It was late evening when they left the hospital, and she would be bringing him back in the morning for therapy and suture removal.

He felt the rush of fresh outside air, which he appreciated after sterile confinement. On the way to her apartment, they talked about spending time away. It would be a few weeks before he was well enough to travel, and he would be meeting with many people in the forthcoming days.

A week later, Peter was regaining stamina and Simmons asked him to come to the Pentagon for debriefing. Rachael drove them across the Potomac; and would attend the meeting in an official capacity.

Peter was in uniform and appeared to be recovering well. The only visible evidence of his ordeal was a noticeable lack of energy and a cane used to help with support, but the morning meeting was no problem. When they got to the General's office complex, Simmons came out to greet Peter and offered to get him a cup of coffee, a rare gesture for a flag to a junior grade officer. Peter accepted black coffee and followed the General to his conference room. At almost the same time, Director Lawrence arrived with two subordinate personnel. Shortly thereafter, Hale Warner's replacement from NSA, Jen Richardson, arrived.

Simmons opened the meeting saying, "Welcome, ladies and gentlemen. This meeting is classified and no notes are to be taken. We are creating a record of the extraction of an Iranian Minister from his country by Major Shields and our naval SOF team. Commander Growley of SEAL Team Two has documented the events before and after the mission. This meeting is to record the events when Major Shields was alone in country."

Addressing Peter, Simmons continued, "Okay Major, there is no structure to this inquiry, so why don't you give us all a chronological review of your time on the sand, so folks can ask questions."

"Yes, General. Well, let me begin from the time we landed on the beach through to the time the SEALs took custody of the Minister two days later."

Peter gave a factual account of the operation, answering questions as they occurred, mostly concerned about any evidence left behind. He stressed the vital role the Internet played with information from the CIA. At the conclusion, it seemed unlikely that the Iranians would even publicize the Minister's escape. There were several congratulatory remarks before Lawrence said, "Major, that was one heroic thing you did. I would never value any life more than another, but Minister Abu Qatada has been a strong ally to us and has made a point of telling me how you risked your life to save his. I can't imagine what it's like to do something like that, but I'm grateful that we have people like you."

Peter thanked him for the accolade, but was feeling strained. When the meeting adjourned, Simmons invited him to his office. "Have a seat Peter. That was some operation you executed. With the validation of Sheik Qatada and support of Director Lawrence, I am recommending you for the Distinguished Service Cross. I know you don't do things for glory and the citation will be sealed, but you have clearly met the definition of extreme gallantry and risk of life."

"Thank you, sir, I felt it was my duty to do this."

"I'm sure you did, but it was truly an exceptional feat. It's one thing to volunteer for a dangerous assignment, but it's entirely another thing to carry it out with such success and no political fallout. Peter, you could write your own ticket on this, which you've heard before. Let me know if there's anything I can do for you. You have a brilliant career ahead, no matter where it takes you."

The General could see that Peter was getting tired, so he ended the dialogue and stood to shake Peter's hand. After departing, Peter walked to Rachael's office where she was busy at her desk, trying to look engaged. He sensed that she was just marking time waiting to take him home.

Somewhere on the drive along the parkway she said, "Sweetheart, I've found a nice little private B&B on the shore and made plans for us to go there as soon as you're well enough for a long weekend. It's the perfect place for you to propose to me."

He smiled and continued staring ahead, with her words still resonating. He was overjoyed that she would marry him, when she could have the pick of any guy in Washington, yet she was telling him that she wanted to marry him, a soldier from the back country with limited skills and so few social qualities.

He stammered as she looked out of the corner of her eye, "Ah, fine. It sounds like a great time!"

He was wondering where he would be able to get a ring on short notice.

### Burton Jennings

Will Lawrence left the meeting at General Simmons' office feeling content. Major Shields had not learned anything about Ali's personal life. He still had concerns about Rachael Aston's investigation, and she would probably talk to Peter about it. But, for now, she was concentrating on Shields' recovery.

Returning to his townhouse in Reston that night, he was relaxed and planning to be on a vacation plane in the morning. Other worries would all dissolve in the Cayman Islands. Ali, Frank Saberi, had made all the arrangements online. As a recognized senior CIA official, Lawrence could not travel internationally using his true identity. For the trip to the Caymans, he would use a fake passport and credit cards under the name Burton Jennings. Since he was the designated "handler" of Frank Saberi's file, no one would know that an important former Minister of Iran, under U.S. protection, was away on vacation. Ali's appearance had changed enough that he wouldn't be recognized. He was starting to lose weight, and no one had seen him without a beard in thirty years.

The next morning, Burton Jennings took a taxi to Reagan National Airport for a U.S. Airways flight to Maimi. From there, he would transfer to Delta for the trip to Grand Cayman Island, four hundred miles south. Flying first class all the way, he had unlimited free drinks and enjoyed three Bloody Mary's en route to Florida. Aboard Delta, he was drinking scotch whiskey. Upon arrival at Grand Cayman's Owen Roberts International Airport, just before four o'clock in the afternoon, he was feeling woozy. "Burt" cleared customs and immigration then took a taxi to the luxurious Grand Cayman hotel, awaiting word from his friend. Without unpacking or even removing his shoes, he opened the door to his third-floor veranda, and fell onto the bed, asleep. Ali, Frank, was scheduled to land around six thirty, so Burt was able to sleep for a couple hours.

At seven thirty that night, the phone on the bed stand rang, interrupting his slumber. He was still groggy when he said, "Hello."

"Will, it's me -- Frank, I made it!"

"Oh, Frank, that's great my friend. Are you settled yet?"

"I just got into my room and need to hang some things. Let's meet for dinner in the lobby at eight, then we can begin our adventure."

"Great. Okay, I'll be there at eight. This is a great hotel!"

At eight o'clock, they met downstairs and decided to walk along the beach to one of the open-air beach bars that served food & drinks, and people could dance all night long. The air was warm with a mild breeze. Somewhere, blossoms were releasing a fragrance and there was a mild sea mist when they walked near the breakers. It was almost two in the morning before they stumbled arm in arm, back to the hotel. They laughed as they strolled under the quarter moonlight with crashing waves providing background music. The men were rekindling a friendship shared decades earlier in college. Neither was gay, yet they showed some of the intimacy and mannerisms of a courting couple, common among Middle-Eastern men. Lawrence knew it was Middle Eastern tradition for men to show affection without implying a sexual relationship. At the hotel, they made plans for breakfast at nine o'clock.

The following morning, breakfast was a leisurely buffet beside the gigantic outdoor swimming pool. Lawrence enjoyed hardboiled eggs and fruit, while Frank opted for pickled herring, tomato salad and flatbread. Afterward, they took a taxi to the Bank Niaga Grand Cayman to begin the process of moving money into individual numbered accounts. After establishing separate accounts, they were told by the bank president that it would take several hours to complete the procedures and that they should enjoy the island until then. It was a complex process when establishing separate accounts to partition one billion, three hundred million dollars, minus reimbursements to the Iranian government.

Frank had made all the preliminary arrangements by phone and email, but the final process of verifications would take several more hours. In the meantime, the bank had arranged for a scuba diving outing for the men based on Frank's suggestion. The day would be spent enjoying a casual dive on one of the deep-water shipwrecks off the eastern coast. The dive boat was waiting for them at a nearby marina with all the equipment and food aboard. A bank limousine would drive them to the boat and meet them when they returned. It was promised to be a wonderful excursion. Ali was an avid diver in the Arabian Sea. Will had enjoyed scuba diving before college, but had not been under water since then.

On the way to the marina, Lawrence and Ali both felt uncontrollable glee with the vast fortune they would soon split. Their scheme to blackmail the airlines and government had worked flawlessly. Their investment had been minimal compared to the return they were both receiving. Two boys from Berkeley had proven how smart they were.

Grand Cayman Island Marina was only a few minutes from the bank. Frank took a note from his pocket and instructed the driver to take them to pier E where their dive boat, the Sunset Breeze, was waiting. It was a twenty-five foot long open dive boat with a small cabin and galley. When they left the car, Frank asked the driver to be back around three thirty in the afternoon. The driver assured him that he would be there for them. With that, they meandered down the gangplank onto the boat.

"Ah, Will, this is going to be wonderful. We have the boat to ourselves."

Lawrence responded, "Well, old friend, this should be a real adventure. I love to dive, but I'm not in the shape I was last time thirty years ago."

"Do not worry my friend, I think we shall be in no hurry today. Take all the time needed to be comfortable. I had them bring only the best equipment. Did I tell you that we are diving on the cruise ship "Obsession" in shallow water? It is rumored to be full of unclaimed treasure! It sank fifty years ago and has not been thoroughly salvaged. We might find someone's family jewels left behind!"

The cruise to the site took almost an hour with the twin Mercury outboards throttled wide open. About halfway to the dive site, the "captain" suggested that the divers begin fitting equipment. He was otherwise silent and Lawrence could not place his origin. He was dark with a beard, like most of the natives on the island, but his accent seemed different. As they approached the site, the Captain began circling, using sonar to pinpoint the ship. Although the water was crystal clear, they could not see the bottom. As they circled, both men finished donning their gear, helping each other with the air tanks. The Captain explained that it was too deep to anchor, and he would maintain position by navigating in small circles around the stricken ship. Lawrence felt a little uneasy so far from shore with the boat untethered, but Frank remained calm. He was given a bag of tools to use on ship hatches and doors.

Stepping off the open swim door on the side, it took several seconds for the air to escape from their wetsuits. Once purged, the suits filled with water and the temperature neutralized. It was always an eerie feeling to Lawrence breathing cool dry air under water, but exhilarating at the same time.

Both divers were facing each other while getting oriented. Then Ali pointed downward, doing a clumsy jackknife. As they descended, their ears could feel pressure and were "popping" every few seconds. According to the chart on deck, the ship's main structure would be about sixty feet below. It was deeper than most pleasure divers liked to go, but they were not planning to go all the way to the bottom. They would just cruise around the upper structure.

About twenty feet down, Lawrence could see a dark form below them. An eerie feeling crept over him again and he was about to signal Frank to hold at this depth to equalize, but Ali had already accelerated his dive. Lawrence didn't want to be alone, and followed his friend's swim fins. Ali swam past an outer structure, toward one of the upper deck's watertight hatches. Lawrence came to his side signaling that he wanted to go up, but Ali seemed to smile and indicated that they should venture inside. It was dark at this depth, but Lawrence's eyes were adjusting. Ali began moving the levers on the hatch and it opened with a groan. He was able to pull it open wide enough to swim through, and then signaled to Lawrence to follow. He hesitated, but Ali insisted, so he swam inside slowly, expecting to see floating debris. Most soft material had disintegrated in the brine decades before, or was lying in silt on the bottom. Thankfully, there were no skeletons lying about. As Lawrence swam into the chamber, he heard the sound of tools being manipulated in the bag Ali was carrying. Before he realized what was happening, there was a tug on his regulator hose and a loud rush of escaping air. He panicked, sucking for air, but water gushed from his mouthpiece as he whirled for help, only to see Ali swimming out of the door. Lawrence inhaled more water involuntarily as his lungs filled. He needed air! Terror overtook his senses when he saw the door close and heard the levers tightened from outside. He was trapped in a black steel cube without air. He spit the mouthpiece out in a last fatal reaction. He tried to fight the hatch levers from the inside as Ali hammered them tight from outside. He lost consciousness after a few seconds.

Ali began his slow assent to the surface after dropping the tool bag over the side of the ship, to be lost in blackness below. He ascended at the same rate as the small bubbles from his regulator to avoid the effects of expanding nitrogen in his blood. Below him, his college friend and co-conspirator in the missile sham was drowning. Sad, but he was an infidel who had served the U.S. Government, never truly understanding their relationship.

It took several minutes to surface in the choppy ocean. Rising on a wave crest, he saw the boat motoring toward him, a hundred yards away. As it came alongside, the Captain lowered the swim ladder and Ali threw his fins aboard. It was difficult climbing upward with the air tank and the crewman grabbed the regulator, pulling him onto the deck. Nothing was said about the missing diver. The man helped Ali shed his gear, then started the boat moving at top speed back to the marina.

### Proposal

Waking to the sound of seagulls in St. Michael's, Maryland, Peter was at peace and relaxed on the eastern shore of the Chesapeake. Rachael had arranged everything perfectly. Lying in bed, too early for breakfast, he was still pondering how to propose to her. He wasn't prepared to make a speech or otherwise be creative. Removing covers gently, he decided to take a morning walk on the beach alone, without disturbing her. He had not stayed in a bed-and-breakfast before and felt uncomfortable walking around someone's house to get outside.

The air was brisk, even for summer, with a slight breeze off the water from the west, and the bay was glassy smooth. He was barefoot and enjoyed the hard wet sand under foot. Instinctively, he began to jog. It had been months since he was able to move freely and he enjoyed the feeling of his heart rate increase and legs tensioning. His muscles felt extraordinarily tight across the upper back, and his left arm ached from a gunshot wound received a year earlier in Chicago. He began slowly, knowing that it would take weeks to get back into physical condition, but as he ran, the pace began to accelerate. He would be sore, but today it felt great just to be moving again. Along with the exertion, his mind began to clarify the approach he would use to ask Rachael to marry him. She expected it, but he still needed to demonstrate to her that it really was his desire.

About a mile from the beach house, he stopped to catch his breath. In a few weeks, he would be able to run miles without exhaustion. As he continued walking with his hands latched behind his head, he realized that proposing to her wasn't about fanfare and ceremony. He just needed to show her his true feelings. His leg and shoulder muscles were tense, so he stopped to stretch before turning back toward the beach house. He walked about a hundred yards then started jogging. There were two guest rooms and they had met the two legislative aides who were occupying the second room. A quarter mile from the house, he slowed again and stopped to stretch before walking. To his delight, Rachael was outside in her bathrobe sitting on one of the beach chairs looking in his direction. He waved and began jogging toward her.

He stayed on the hard sand until opposite the house then turned toward her. Winded, he said, "Hi there, didn't expect to see you up this early."

She was smiling contentedly, "Hi yourself, I couldn't sleep anymore in a strange empty bed. You sure look like you're recovering fast."

"Yeah, I love the sea air and sound of the ocean at dawn. This is terrific, thanks for setting this up!"

She said, "We needed a break, and I love it here too. There's fresh coffee in the kitchen. Let's get some."

They walked together to the house and although the hostess was obviously at work, she was invisible. It felt like their house on the beach.

That night, at sunset, Peter proposed with a nervous stammer, wrecking his rehearsed lines. Rachael threw her arms around his neck, kissing him forcefully. It was the answer he wanted.

### Treason

On Monday, back in Washington, Rachael and Peter each reported to their offices in the Pentagon and the Guard Bureau, respectively. The security detail assigned to Rachael had been dropped after Peter was well enough to drive her to work and back.

After the morning meetings were finished, General Simmons informed Rachael that a meeting had been called at the NSA regarding the funds diversion from the missile threat. They took a staff car over to Ft. Meade, near Baltimore.

After security check-in, they were escorted to a windowless conference room where a small group was gathered. As they entered, a tall woman stood and welcomed them, "Hello. I'm Jen Richardson, acting Deputy Director of National Intelligence at the NSA. I called this meeting." The other participants were from the CIA, FBI and the Defense Intelligence Agency.

Richardson introduced everyone, and then began, "Thank you all for shifting your schedules around on short notice. I know this was inconvenient, but we have been developing some information that is important, regarding the funds from the ransom paid to the terrorists."

This had everyone's attention as she continued, "As you know, the administration paid a billion dollars in exchange for capturing the terrorists and their weapons. The intelligence community had set up an elaborate plan to track these funds through the world's banking systems and, hopefully, capture the conspirators. It's a good assumption that the people demanding the ransom were also the ones who financed the attacks on our planes."

Jen didn't use any visual aids and only a small notepad for reference. "Okay, we don't get a lot of cooperation from Venezuela as you know, but our embassy has been able to get information we believe proves that there was a deliberate act of subterfuge from our side to disrupt cooperation. I'll get into that more in a minute. We think it came through one of our intelligence channels."

The FBI Special Agent assigned to the meeting interjected, "Wow, that's pretty stiff. Are you saying the conspiracy was launched from inside the U.S.?"

"We aren't saying that specifically, and I think there's evidence that the actual plan and control originated in Iran, but there appears to be a collaborator somewhere over here."

She paused for a moment before saying, "This possibility was being explored by Hale Warner before his death."

Rachael felt a chill.

Jen went on, "From what we've learned, the information passed to the press in Venezuela came directly from the embassy to a journalist in country. We've asked the State Department to track down the source. We don't believe the station (embassy) personnel are involved in the conspiracy, but higher authority in the states could have manipulated them. With the amount of money involved and the complexity of the operations, someone very well connected in bad parts of the world would need to be involved."

Simmons spoke up, "Well Ms. Richardson, let's not pussy foot around. Whom do you suspect?"

"General, I won't speculate--not yet. This is too serious to chase down dark alleys. It could be someone in any of our organizations."

She continued, "The other thing we have to recognize is that this was a well-executed effort that was set up from the beginning to defeat our tracking efforts. That could only have happened with prior knowledge of the payment plan. Since we believe the banking channels were manipulated from the Middle East, this had to be a well-connected bunch we're dealing with."

The meeting ended following a few questions. On the ride back, Simmons and Rachael didn't discuss the meeting in the car and she left that evening with Peter soon after arriving back at the Pentagon. Instead of driving directly home, she wanted to talk to him outside the car and her apartment, so he turned north onto the Parkway. Traffic was slow until they passed Reston then took about fifteen minutes before he turned into a quiet vista along the Potomac where they could walk through the woods overlooking the river. He said, "Gee, if you wanted to make out, this is a great spot!"

"Yeah, that's it. I wanted to trap you in broad daylight."

He smiled, but didn't say anything, allowing her to collect her thoughts.

"Okay, this is classified. We're pretty sure that someone high up in U.S. intelligence was involved with the missile attacks on our airlines. It almost has to be the CIA, since these guys were able to manipulate Venezuela newspapers."

Peter responded, "Rach, there are twenty thousand employees there, how high up do you think?"

"High enough to have important friends in the Middle East, we think Iran."

They sat silently on a bench for a few moments staring out at the view. The summer sun was just beginning to cast longer shadows toward the gorge shaping the river. On the other side, they could see the twin steeples of the National Cathedral.

He spoke first, "Honey, this is really bizarre, but do you really think Will Lawrence is behind this?"

"I don't know, but it's just too damned coincidental that two top guys in both countries, with the right profiles, are surfacing. I can't help thinking about Hale Warner. Will was one of the few people who knew about our theory, and now Hale's dead."

He didn't say anything about the attack in her apartment, but they were both thinking of it. "Yeah, there are some strange intersects in this."

She responded, "Tomorrow, I plan to dig deeper into Lawrence and the Iranian."

"I don't think you should do that. I'll do some checking though my office."

She was going to object, but understood his concern for her safety. She felt it herself. "Okay, but you can always ask our office for help."

The following morning, he dropped her at the East entrance to the Pentagon. Minutes later, he was parking at Guard Bureau Headquarters in Arlington. There were a few procedural things he had to accomplish, then he began searching classified databases and open web searches for any information connecting Lawrence and the minister. After reading biographies of both men, he found that both were the same age and had attended Berkeley in the 1970's. There were no obvious connections between Lawrence's career assignments and the minister, so he made a phone call to an FBI friend in Chicago.

Brendan Hamilton was at his desk when the phone rang.

"Hi, Brendan, it's Peter Shields."

"Peter, my god, how are you? How's the arm? How's Rachael?"

"All's good, my friend. Rachael and I are engaged!"

"Wow. Congratulations! I figured you'd get the nerve to ask her eventually. You're one lucky guy!"

"Yeah, imagine her and me. I caught her at a weak moment."

"You guys make a dynamite pair. I can't tell you how happy this makes me."

"Thanks. So, do you have a minute for some business?"

"For you, buddy, sure, what's up?"

"Brendan, I'm sure you know who Will Lawrence is. You may also have heard the name of the Iranian Foreign Minister Sheik Ali Abu Qatada?"

"I've heard both names, tell me again who Lawrence is."

"He's a senior spook at CIA, doesn't get in the news too often."

"Okay. I don't know him, but I'm sure I've heard of the Iranian. So, this is an official call?"

"No, just one friend advising another."

"Okay, Peter, what can I do to help you?"

Brendan Hamilton was an FBI agent in the Chicago field office. He, Peter and Rachael worked together to defeat the bomb threat in Chicago, forever forging a bond between them sealed in blood.

"Brendan, these two guys went to Berkeley at the same time around the end of Vietnam, the seventies. I'm trying to determine if they knew each other. I'm working with Army intel and we're trying to piece together some things."

"Well, ah. I assume this is not an official investigation?"

"Yeah, that makes it tougher, I realize."

"Look, Peter. I trust your judgment and will help if I can. I have an academy buddy in San Francisco that can quietly investigate if I ask. What are the correct names of the two men?"

Peter gave their complete names and ages and Brendan said he would get in touch with San Francisco as soon as the office opened on the West Coast. He understood that this was urgent and needed to be handled with great care.

After the call, Peter began searching for information about the terrorists, to determine if any were associated with Abu Qatada. He didn't have any luck, but late in the day, Brendan called back, "Peter, I got some information you might find interesting."

"Go ahead, Brendan. I'm all ears."

"Okay, well. Your hunch was right. Both men were at Berkeley and they had to have known each other. There was a group called 'Muslim Studies' that both men belonged to. That was at the time when the Shah was sending a lot of students to U.S. schools to 'westernize' them. This group doesn't exist anymore, but there's some stuff published in the archives of the Berkeleyan campus newspaper. There's even a picture of both guys together with some Muslim students. Lawrence stands out like a neon sign among all the Middle Eastern guys. I can send you the article if you like."

"Hey, Brendan, this is great stuff. Umm, don't send me anything right now. I want to keep message traffic to a minimum. Oh, and tell your buddy in San Fran that he did really good."

"Okay, man, you got it. I'll file it away in an unmarked folder."

"Thanks, I owe you one."

"You don't owe me anything, but I'd sure like to see you guys again if I get down to Washington."

"Likewise, Brendan. Rachael and I would love to see you."

They ended the call and Peter wasn't sure what he had learned. That night, he stopped with Rachael for another park-bench discussion.

### The Sheik Goes Home

Frank Saberi checked out of the Grand Cayman the morning after the diving trip. He had concluded the meeting with Bank Niaga having transferred all the money, minus fees, to his account under Frank Saberi. Burt Jennings' account remained empty. The hotel driver took him to the airport for the flight to Atlanta. Without Lawrence in the office, no one at CIA knew his new identity.

Lawrence had always been a pitiful figure in Ali's life. He was a misguided idealist at Berkeley. It was characteristic of the campus culture at the time to get involved in social causes. The anti-war movement was growing stale, so Willy had wandered into the Muslim cabal without ever understanding the culture or history. Ali had enjoyed manipulating this infidel over the years as a back-channel connection into the U.S.. When Lawrence took a job in Government, Ali's friendship remained strong and, as he progressed through the intelligence ranks, his career had strengthened through this clandestine association.

His trip back to Scottsdale would be short. There was no record anywhere linking Frank Saberi with Will Lawrence or Burton Jennings. He would only be in Arizona for one day before starting a circuitous journey home, having fulfilled his mission. He would return a hero after almost losing his head due to the failure of the earlier attack on Chicago.

After convincing his government to spend a hundred million dollars for a stolen Russian nuclear warhead, in a failed scheme to destroy a major U.S. city, Abu Qatada had promised to recover the money many times over. He was risking his life on this great gamble. In this plan, when successful, Iran would be able to accelerate their nuclear weapon development. The plan worked brilliantly, manipulating the U.S. He would return home as a hero.

Arriving in Phoenix, he drove to his new home about forty miles away. In the morning, Frank Saberi would fly to New York, then on to Moscow. From Moscow, he would fly to Tehran on Iranian Airlines under a pre-arranged visa from the embassy. Once home, he would be greeted as royalty and discard his U.S. identity.

### Guantanamo

Hasan Abd al-Majiid awoke for morning prayers in Guantanamo Bay detention camp. His cot was placed under a metal shed roof in a kennel-like cage formed by linked wire fencing. It was never cold, but the heat was extraordinary during the day. It was like his native country, only more humid. He had been flown to the military prison after his capture in New York. His captors provided an attorney who had explained that it was unusual that he was being treated as an "enemy combatant" rather than a terrorist. As such, he lost many of his rights, and fell under the jurisdiction of the U.S. Defense Department, rather than Justice.

The guards at Guantanamo were young Marines who had acted respectfully since his arrival. The attorney had explained that he could be kept there indefinitely unless a military tribunal decided to do something with him. None of his other compatriots were being treated this way. He had no contact with them.

As he knelt on his rug to commence the morning Salah in supplication to Allah, he heard footsteps approaching the gate to his cage. He was thankful that they stopped before opening the gate while he prayed. The Americans had learned something about the Muslim culture after running the prison for years. When he finished, he stood and turned toward the gate as it opened.

Several Marines had come to escort him. He remained silent, expecting another interrogation. They walked through the maze of cages where other prisoners were sitting quietly, reading the Koran or praying, then preceded up a gravel path toward the provost's office. Once there, he was taken to a stark conference room with one steel table and half a dozen chairs. The senior guard told him to be seated, then they left him alone in the room. Moments later, a Marine officer entered, seating himself across the table.

"Mr. al-Majiid, I am Major Kinnington, one of the JAG officers here at Guantanamo. Do you speak English?"

"Yes."

"You are to be flown as a prisoner of war on a U.S. military plane to Saudi Arabia, where you are being released in exchange for two American soldiers. If you agree to this, I have some forms for you to sign stating that you were treated respectfully and fairly here at Gitmo."

Abd al-Majiid starred in disbelief at the Major without speaking. He looked at the documents on the table in front of him, unable to understand most of it. The Major spoke again, "If you want us to assign you an attorney, we can do that."

Without any comment, Majiid signed both papers and pushed them back across the table. The Major then shouted, "Guards!"

The Marines entered the room as the Major spoke, "Take the prisoner back to his cell and make sure he collects his belongings and bathes. He is to be issued clean prison clothing and to be ready for transport to the air terminal later today. That is all."

The senior guard responded, "Yesser," and then escorted him back to his cell. At dusk, an Air Force cargo plane departed Guantanamo for the Azores, then onward to Saudi Arabia with Hasan Abd al-Majiid aboard.

The next day, Rachael sent an email to Jennifer Richardson.

"Jen,

After reflecting on your meeting on Monday, I would like to talk to you. Give me a call at my office today if you can.

Rachael"

About an hour later they had a brief discussion, and Richardson agreed to come to the Pentagon later that day. She arrived around 3:30PM, and was escorted to a small conference room in the Army Intelligence directorate. Rachael joined her immediately.

After cordialities, Rachael said, "Jen, I was thinking about a possible insider in the missile ransom case."

"All right, and I have some new information also, so, what do you have?"

"Well, I'm not accusing anyone of anything, because there's no proof, but we deal in a misty profession to a large degree. Some of the clues are pointing at Will Lawrence."

"What clues?"

"I can't divulge everything, but did you know that he has a long-time friend high up in the Iranian government? They were buddies at Berkeley."

"You mean Ali Abu Qatada?"

"Yes, I understand that they have remained close over the years. But, it wouldn't be unusual for someone in the CIA to have a direct line into an enemy state."

Rachael went on, "I also worry that Hale was involved with our small group trying to find a mole, if that's the right word, and may have been murdered. Someone tried to harm me about the same time."

"Rachael, I know a little about that, but not much. We have some similar thoughts. I can share some things with you, but they have to be held very close." She looked at Rachael and was distracted momentarily by the fine scar lines on her face, barely discernable under makeup. She had been a victim of a huge bomb blast in Chicago that nearly killed her. The surgeons had done a remarkable job with the sutures. She was a beautiful girl and the doctors had obviously been careful to preserve her facial features.

"Do you recognize the name, Hasan Abd al-Majiid?"

"I think he was one of the terrorists shooting missiles at our airliners." She didn't say that her fiancé had captured them.

"Right, he was the leader here in the states, but he's just a pawn managed from overseas. We think his handler was in Iran."

"Okay, then I know who he is."

"Well, what you probably don't know is that Majiid is no longer in jail."

"What! That murderer killed hundreds of people."

"Wait, it gets better. The reason he isn't in jail is because he was labeled as an enemy combatant and sent to Guantanamo, where he was just released in Saudi for a couple captured Iraqi defense soldiers."

"Are you serious? The guy's a murderer. He killed Americans on our soil. He should be in Federal custody."

"Want to know how it happened?"

Rachael just stared in disbelief, as Richardson continued, "CIA got involved with Justice, convincing them that Majiid was a puppet under a foreign terror state and had information that was vital to U.S. security that was easier to get under DoD rules. This was all done at a high level, so Justice went along with the transfer."

Rachael responded, "Was it Will Lawrence?"

"We're trying to find out. He's unavailable, so we're backtracking through others to find out who was involved. Ultimately, someone high up, like Director Lawrence, could have made this happen."

Rachael felt reluctant to discuss the Iranian minister. Jen had not volunteered any knowledge of his defection.

"Look, Rachael, I think we're on a common wavelength. Let's keep each other informed as we learn things. This needs to stay up on our priority list. If we have a conspirator in government, we need to find him."

The meeting ended the workday, and Peter was waiting in the parking lot. Jen went to the metro station below the Pentagon.

For the next few days, not much else was learned. Peter and Rachael discussed the facts over and over. They also talked about wedding plans. Peter was growing accustomed to the idea. He was most nervous about meeting her parents. They had been with her at the hospital in Chicago, but he was more seriously wounded, unable to visit her.

### Puzzle

Sunday morning, Peter and Rachael were getting dressed with the television playing in the background. They were listening to CNN in disbelief as the President of Iran introducing Sheik Abu Qatada as Secretary General of the Security Council. Peter pressed the program-scheduling button on the controller sure it was an old news clip. It was astonishing. Abu Qatada was standing on the rostrum with the President of Iran, the man who had planned to have him executed. The Minister looked thinner and his beard was short, but Peter could see the man he had lowered from a bedroom window months before.

Still not finished dressing, Rachael sent a text message to Jen Richardson telling her to call her cellphone as soon as possible. Minutes later her phone rang, "This is Rachael."

"Rachael, it's Jen."

Rachael responded, "Have you been watching the news?"

"No. I'm sailing on the Chesapeake right now. Why? Is something wrong?"

"We need to meet in a secure location as soon as possible."

"Ah, okay. Look, we should be finished with lunch and back at the dock by three. Can you come to NSA, say at four?"

Rachael responded, "Yes, and I'm bringing someone with me. He has all the clearances."

"Okay. I'll see you at four."

Rachael and Peter left her apartment and walked a block away for deli sandwiches then over to the Georgetown campus to eat on the lawn. They had to be careful about talking in her apartment. They stayed outdoors until three o'clock then walked back to get his truck for the drive to Baltimore. Mild weekend traffic allowed them to get to Ft. Meade faster than planned, and they had to wait outside the security gate until Jen phoned the guard station authorizing their entrance.

Once inside the impressive facility, Rachael introduced Peter to Jen.

Rachael began. "Jen, the other day I couldn't share everything about my suspicions of Lawrence, but circumstances have changed. Several weeks ago, Peter went on a rescue mission into Tehran to save Minister Abu Qatada from imprisonment or execution. At least that's what Will Lawrence was saying."

"Okay. This sounds intriguing."

Peter spoke. "Director Lawrence led all of us to believe that Abu Qatada was a valuable intelligence asset who had been compromised, so I helped get the Minister out of Iran. After we got him to the states, he was given a new identity and government protection. This morning, we saw the same guy on the news in Iran being promoted to a higher position in their government."

Rachael interjected, "Lots of people fell for this scheme, risking lives and a huge amount of military resources, and it was all a scam. Will Lawrence was at the center of it."

Jen responded, "This smells to high heaven. There was a lot of money involved and a couple of old friends in suspicious circumstances. Okay, I get it. Let's consider this meeting finished. I've got a little investigating to do."

### Money Trail

Rachael was at work early on Monday. After morning briefings, she started answering routine emails when General Simmons stepped into her office saying, "Rachael, I've been called to Meade for a meeting, so I'll be out of the office this morning."

"Yes, sir. Anything I need to know about."

"Don't know. I was told only that it's a two-letter level, so it's something significant. We'll see."

He was gone almost five hours before returning in a rush. He stopped in her office saying, "Rachael, we need to talk. Why don't you call Peter and get him over here. Both of you have a stake, and I need you on the same page."

"Okay, sir. I'll call right now."

Twenty minutes later, Simmons, Rachael and Peter were all sitting inside the vault. Simmons began, "I think you know a lot of this, but I wanted to relate some information that came from my meeting at NSA today. Deputy Director Jennifer Richardson was asked to attend by her boss. She outlined some incriminating information about Director Lawrence at CIA. It turns out that he's been MIA at Langley for a week, and the guy you rescued from Iran might have been involved with him in some kind of conspiracy. We think there might have been Iranian government involvement in the attacks on our airplanes. As you know, Abu Qatada is back in Iran. The CIA is cooperating and we hope to have a better understanding of Lawrence's relationship with Abu Qatada and what they could be involved in."

Rachael said, "So, Will has disappeared and the Iranian is back home. What's the feeling about the ransom money?"

"Not sure, but everyone is probably thinking they conspired to rip off the Government."

Peter had a different, personal, interest. "So, the rescue operation was a setup?"

"Maybe, Peter. I can't tell you how much this pisses me off. I was fooled by Lawrence and pulled a lot of strings to get the operation approved, and you were almost killed. We're not going to let this go unpunished."

Peter asked, "What are we going to do about it?"

Rachael looked askance at him when Simmons answered cautiously, "We don't know anything for sure yet, so it's premature to think about a response. We're not going to let CIA slow-roll this. We still might have a shot at recovering the money. The Iranian minister did something akin to national heroism in his country. For terrorists, that either means killing a lot of people or getting a lot of money. He probably did both."

The meeting ended and Rachael walked out ahead of Peter at a brisk cadence. Peter could read the signs and rushed to catch her. Catching her, he matched her long strides, but she wouldn't look at him.

He said, "Ah, is something bugging you?"

"No. I'm fine!"

"Well, can we talk for a minute? You look agitated."

She stopped briefly, looking at him saying, "We can talk at home. I just want to get out of here."

They were silent until they got inside her townhouse where she confront him saying, "Peter, we're engaged! That means something special to me and I thought it should for you also, but I guess not!"

"Rachael, what are you talking about? Did I say something to upset you?"

"You almost jumped up in front of Simmons and volunteered to go get this guy!"

"Whoa. I didn't!"

"You said, 'What are we going to do about it?' You can't wait to be in on the action. I don't know why I ever thought you'd change. Peter, you can't keep risking your life! I couldn't stand having you in danger again. My god, you've done enough and normal people try to live normal lives."

"Look Rachael, why am I even in these meetings? I'm not a spook. I'm an operator, a tool. You called me today, remember?"

"Simmons wanted you there this time. It wasn't my idea."

He moved closer and put his hands on her shoulders, but she wouldn't look at him as tears began to fall, "Look Rachael, you mean everything to me. You have to believe that. I asked you to marry me, which isn't something I would do casually."

"I made you propose."

"No way! You just gave me the courage to ask you. I was scared that you'd say no."

She leaned her head against his chest, still sobbing, "Will you promise me that you won't pull any more shit jobs. Let some other macho grunt do the dirty work."

"Rachael, I promise."

Over the next few days, Simmons was out of the office meeting with the CIA and NSA. In the background, Rachael was meeting with Jen Richardson to keep abreast of things.

On Friday, Simmons told Rachael they were to attend a meeting at NSA in the afternoon to reveal findings and outline an action plan. She could not help feeling jittery talking about "action," knowing that Peter had reluctantly yielded to her pleadings. At NSA headquarters, there were ten people assembled in the room with NSA and CIA represented by four each.

To Rachael's surprise, NSA Director, Lt. Gen Max Gillen, hosted the meeting, beginning with introductions, "Welcome all of you. For the past several days, people from the intelligence community have been working together investigating a key individual at CIA for possible involvement in the airline attacks. Unfortunately, Mr. Lawrence may have disappeared, but I think the information developed so far will go a long way toward proving our case."

Unlike a lot of bureaucrats, General Gillen was giving his own presentation.

"These are pictures of Mr. Lawrence and a fellow student at Berkeley in the early seventies. They were part of a Muslim group and are believed to have remained friends after college. Both have reached prominence in their governments, as you all know. We have concluded that these two men were involved in the terror plot against our airlines and extorted a billion dollar ransom payment.

"As I said, Lawrence is missing and the CIA can't locate him. He was instrumental in hiding his Persian friend neatly before disappearing. Both men disappeared for a short time, then Abu Qatada re-emerged in Iran.

"The CIA was able to unwind some of Lawrence's effort to conceal Qatada as a man in Arizona with a fake name. They were able to track the guy to the Cayman's, then onto a flight to Russia. The trail then disappeared until he showed up in the news last weekend.

"We think Lawrence went to the Cayman's as well, but disappeared, leaving some personal belongings at a hotel.

"We're working with Scotland Yard and local authorities to track a large money deposit that may be the ransom money. If we're successful, we hope to freeze the account before money transfers again.

"Most of this is verified already, so assume it's factual."

It was inappropriate to interrupt the General while he was speaking, but the meeting was now open for dialogue. Simmons asked, "General, a lot of Americans died either to make these guys rich or to raise money for terrorists. What should we do about it?"

Gillen answered, "We all need to think about that. This meeting only presents the facts. I'll leave it up to the CIA and DoD to figure out how to respond."

### Frozen Funds

Over the next two days, the CIA determined that the ransom funds were being held in a numbered account in Grand Cayman awaiting transfer. Through intense diplomatic pressure, the UK Security Service, MI5, gained access to the account file. Two American owners were identified, with supporting government documents, as co-signors on the account. Either one could access the funds independent of the other. Under Cayman law, funding withdrawals greater than ten thousand dollars could be delayed up to forty-eight hours. There had been a temporary freeze on the account by the Cayman government under British request while the depositors were investigated. The freeze could only last seventy-two hours if there was a withdrawal request, or seven days if there was no request.

The two Americans, Frank Saberi and Burton Jennings, had signed numerous documents and been photographed, along with their passports. The pictures verified that Lawrence and Abu Qatada were using false names and had control of the money for themselves.

Their addresses were recorded along with phone numbers and other contact information. The bank president remembered the two men because it was such a large sum of money for two individuals to share equally. He also remembered that Mr. Jennings had not come back to the bank in the afternoon after waiting for their confirmations.

The FBI had investigated the Saberi residence in Scottsdale that same day, learning that the man had only been seen a couple of times. Tracking Burt Jennings was more difficult since the address on his documents was non-existent. There was no airline record of Jennings departing the Caymans.

The pieces of the puzzle were starting to fit together.

A meeting was called on Friday at CIA headquarters to discuss the findings. Rachael attended with Simmons, as well as Jen Richardson and several CIA people. A report concluded that Will Lawrence was a fugitive, probably connected with a plot to extort a billion dollars from the U.S. Government. He had conspired with Iranian minister Abu Qatada. The purpose of this group was to determine what options should be pursued.

Rachael asked, "This seems like an iron-clad legal case for the Justice department, why are we, intelligence agencies, involved?"

One of the CIA men answered, "Ms. Aston, we completely agree that the evidence is overwhelming. But, we have a couple problems. For one, the evidence is classified and we cannot disclose much about our processes in obtaining it. We could never offer it in a court. Secondly, we have a chance of recovering the funds through legal channels if we take action immediately."

Simmons asked, "Explain that."

"Okay, we all know how long legal processes can take. For the moment, we have less than three days before the frozen funds could be transferred by one of the crooks, and we probably won't see the money again. On the other hand, if we 'neutralize' the account owners, there will be time for the system to work."

Jen interjected, "If you're suggesting that we kill two people, one is a U.S. citizen and the other is a foreign government official."

"We don't think the American is alive." It struck Rachael that the CIA didn't refer to Will Lawrence by name. He seemed to be an inanimate object to them.

She said, "How would you plan to get around all the Executive Orders since Jimmy Carter that prohibit assassinations?

The unnamed CIA spokesman said, "We know the law. In this case, we could consider an exception granted by the Terrorist Elimination Act of 2001, on the basis that the funds are likely to be used against the U.S.. But, on the other hand, this wouldn't be a political assassination at all. We are going after a proven terrorist and his bank account."

Rachael was thinking like a lawyer and not convinced. "Okay, rationalize any way you like, but what I'm really hearing is that we have a chance to cut off a billion dollars from funding another WMD attack, maybe numerous attacks."

The man from the CIA responded, "Yes that's right."

He went on, "All right then, we don't have much time. We have all the experts here from our Mid-East sector, but we don't have any good options on the ground in Iran. Short of a well-placed nuclear bomb, we don't have a good way to get at this guy in the heart of Tehran. We need to develop an operation from scratch, and fast. Ideas, please?"

Simmons leaned next to Rachael and whispered, "I know just the guy."

She turned ashen and didn't respond. Simmons was unaware of her feelings, and she knew he could draw Peter in. This was just the kind of save-the-country scenario he could not turn down. When they left the meeting, Simmons was on his cellphone for the short trip back to the Pentagon and she had no opportunity to speak with him. When they got to the office, she moved ahead slightly and turned, "General, can we talk privately for a moment?"

"Sure, Rachael, let's go into your office." She closed the door.

"Sir, I'm not sure what to say or if this is even appropriate given my position, but I'd like to talk to you about Major Shields."

Simmons looked at her and decided to sit down. He was almost old enough to be her father saying, "Rachael, I'm starting to think you're asking me to play favorites."

"Maybe, sir, but I think I'm, we've, Peter and I, earned the right to ask for special consideration."

"Rachael, you've both bled for the country and earned the right to ask for anything, but I guess I'm a little surprised."

"General, John, I'm not only deeply in love with Peter, he's done so much and suffered. I think that in the interest of humanity, the military could find someone else for a change. Peter would never refuse this mission if given the chance, even if it meant breaking a promise to me. He's just like that."

"Okay Rachael, this is off the record and I want you to think of me as a friend, not as your boss." He waited for a moment to allow her resolve to mellow slightly. Fortunately, they had worked together long enough that she trusted him.

"You need to think about this, right now and hard. It's not just endangering our country by not using him. It could destroy your relationship. He would know you bargained against him if this mission goes off without even consulting him. He would blame you. How can we not ask him? You'd be attacking him on an emotional scale that could be far more devastating over the course of a lifetime than the danger of one mission."

She was beginning to shake. "But John, you know he'll want to be in the middle of it. He'll want to be on the ground again. They nearly killed him last time and it was a staged event!"

"Okay Rachael, let me suggest this, we need Peter to help with planning. He knows how to survive in metropolitan Tehran, and he knows the layout of the guy's home. This is vital stuff. So, I've got to ask him to help. You're right, I know he'll want to go in. The best I can do is talk to him as I would talk to you.

"But also, you know you've got to support him. He'll feel he has to go and your resistance could distract him."

He got up and gave her a hug. "Look, kid, you know I would never want to see you hurt. Peter's a great guy who'll be a wonderful husband and father. But, his country needs him one more time."

He left her alone. She wasn't crying, but was close.

### Rachael's Decision

After half an hour of quiet introspection behind a closed door, Rachael composed herself before walking across to the General's office. The staff was respectful. They could sense from their demeanors that Rachael was having difficulty with the boss.

"Sir, can we speak?"

"Sure, Rachael."

She closed his door, "John, I realize that this is ultimately going to involve Peter and I don't want to cause problems, certainly nothing that will hurt him. I would just like to know that you are giving him an option to stay behind. It won't happen, but I'd still like to think you care enough for him and me that he'll make the choice."

"Rachael, you can rest assured that I will have a heart to heart with him and that any decision he makes will be difficult. I will respect his wishes if he does not want to go back in again."

"Also sir, I'd like to be sure this is a military mission and that he'll get full support."

"Rachael, I will expect to be in overall command and will risk my career, if necessary, to give the guys on the ground everything they need."

"All right then, I want to talk to Peter first."

"I would appreciate that."

That evening after Peter picked her up at the Pentagon and while they were driving to Georgetown, Rachael told him that General Simmons wanted to talk to him in the morning, and the subject was important. He could tell that she didn't want to talk inside the truck, so he diverted again to a park along the Potomac where they could walk and talk.

She told him about the meeting at the CIA. It was awkward outside in the open, but there was nobody within earshot, and she didn't care.

Peter asked, "So why does Simmons want to talk to me?"

She shuddered without looking at him, "I think you know what it's all about."

"Rachael, I made a promise to you that I intend to keep."

They walked along the river without stopping to look at each other. After some time, she said, "Look, I had a talk with the General today. He's going to ask you to help put a plan together to stop Abu Qatana before he can transfer money from an island bank account. I think he believes someone will need to go back into Iran. It's going to save American lives and you're probably the only person with the experience that can also identify the Minister."

"Are you saying you want me to go?"

"Hell no! I'm only saying I'm able to accept it. I don't like it, but I'll accept it."

He remained silent as they walked up an embankment to his Explorer. That night, they cuddled and drank a bottle of wine with dinner. Very little was said and during the night, their lovemaking was more intense and urgent than ever before. Peter stayed awake most of the night starting to understand what she meant by "commitment." He had always been able to go on an operation with no personal encumbrances, but with her beside him, he could sense the disastrous affect it would have on her, if he was killed or disabled. It weighed on his mind throughout the night.

Peter parked at the Pentagon at seven o'clock the next morning and went with Rachael to her office. General Simmons was already at work. Together, they went to see him. Simmons said, "Good morning, you two! I just put on some coffee so let's go fill some mugs." Rachael made tea while Peter let the General pour his fourth cup then followed him back to his office.

"Well Major, I'm guessing that Rachael has briefed you?"

"Yes, sir. I think I know the objective and the criticality of time. I gather you'd like my help putting the plan together."

Simmons affirmed, "We need something fast and simple, otherwise this will turn into a cluster fuck of monumental proportions."

"Actually sir, speed of execution may be the key to success. The Iranians will expect some kind of retaliation, but they won't be expecting it so soon. Abu Qatada probably doesn't know how quickly the CIA got under his tent. He won't be alert until he finds the funds frozen."

"Exactly what I was thinking, Peter. How quickly can you have a plan ready to brief the spooks?"

"Sir, I can be ready in a few hours if you tell me we can use military assets."

"Well, we won't have time to get Nimitz in position (US aircraft carrier operating in the Indian Ocean), but otherwise, put the plan together and let's see what we can do. We'll brief the CIA and the NSC at the same time. The President will need to authorize overt use of the military, but I can't see a problem this time. Technically, this will be a CIA operation, but I intend to use the emergency ops center and be there through the whole thing."

"HUA (Heard, Understood & Acknowledged), sir!"

Rachael stood in the doorway behind Peter while the conversation took place and didn't say a word. Her stare let both men know she missed the part about someone else leading the mission. She appreciated the fact that Simmons would be at the command center.

The rest of the morning, Peter sat in a cubicle researching the Internet and putting tables of equipment and personnel together. In order to expedite the process, he left out whole elements, such as the operating budget. The schedule was short with most things happening in parallel. At eleven o'clock he told Simmons they could plan the meeting for 1300 hours.

Rachael hoped they would have time for lunch, but the process was moving too swiftly. She knew they might not be alone together again until the mission was over. Feeling sick, she told them she was leaving and Simmons arranged a driver to take her home. Peter missed the opportunity to talk to her.

Later that afternoon, while she was sitting on the couch listening to music and sipping iced tea, Peter came home to collect his gear. He was animated, "Rach, ah, I didn't know if you would be awake."

"Yeah, well. I just couldn't sit around the office as you charted your way to death's door again." She reflected a moment, then continued, "I'm sorry, I don't want to depress you. I told myself it has to be this way and thought I could handle it."

He walked over to her and knelt beside her as she buried her face in her hands. As he stroked her hair, she turned toward him and threw her arms around his shoulders, kissing him passionately. "Oh, Peter, I'm all wrong. You need to do this, I want you to do this, but I don't want to lose you!"

He answered slowly, "Look, honey, I just put together the most awesome plan and got full approval. I'll have more stuff supporting me that anything I've ever done before. I'm not going in alone. John Stokes is going with me along with First Sergeant Josh Blomstein. They're both good guys that I can count on. We'll get this done and be home before you know it. The whole plan could be over in a few days."

"Peter, I know you love me, and I don't want you to worry about me. I'll be fine."

He held her and kissed her for several minutes then went upstairs for his gear. A driver was waiting curbside to take him to Andrews.

### Operation Deal Break

There was no time to invent a fancy name for the operation, so the first suggestion stuck. By nine o'clock that night, all three combatants and dozens of support personnel were aboard the C5 Galaxy aircraft, and the largest airplane ever built in the U.S. was screaming down the runway at Andrews. The behemoth felt like flying inside a basketball arena. Peter was in charge of the operation and he instructed everyone to sleep for five hours before beginning the mission briefing. Both Stokes and Blomstein knew little about the mission, except they both trusted Peter. Both had been stuck behind desks most of the time and were exhilarated about going into the field again.

Hours later, the mission briefing was completed. All were amazed by its audaciousness, and it helped to know Peter had been in country before.

At 2:30PM, the giant airplane landed at Baghdad International Airport and taxied to the military air terminal where U.S. flights arrived and departed around the clock. The C5 was parked near an open hanger with the rear cargo door facing into the military complex, hidden from civilian onlookers. Everyone was weary from the flight and appreciated the solid ground again, even if it was inside a hanger in a desert.

The Central Military Command had arranged for food, cold drinks, lounge chairs and cots. Peter stayed aboard until everyone departed the aircraft then followed down the long ramp. The C5 has a unique ability to lower the body of the aircraft on the landing struts once the airplane stopped, permitting an almost level surface on the loading ramp. As he walked down, several senior officers were waiting to assure that all equipment was ready.

After an hour of equipment checks, he joined the rest of the team for food and last minute instructions. They would begin assembling equipment kits at 1800 hours, and start the first insertion leg at 2100 hours, 9:00PM. There was no time to rest. While preparing, an HH-60 Blackhawk helicopter approached, landing near the C5, and then taxied close to the huge hanger door. The insertion team, code named Striker, loaded their gear aboard the helicopter, ready to depart in three minutes. The mission was officially underway as they lifted off the runway.

As the Blackhawk took off, the pilots extinguished landing and running lights. The big black helicopter would fly at three thousand feet, nearly undetectable from the ground by human observers. Their destination was a mountain base near the Iranian border, thirty miles east of Kirkuk in northern Iraq. It was the nearest friendly location to launch a raid on Western Tehran, about two hundred fifty miles to the East. They landed at about 2300 hours, on schedule.

It took five minutes to transfer their gear to another modified HH-60. The HH-60G Pave Hawk, was developed for covert military insertions in unfriendly territory. The helicopter flies at almost two hundred miles per hour using dozens of classified navigation aids and automated defensive systems. It's equipped to fly at treetop level following ground contours using night vision systems. Pave Hawk aircrews are all volunteers highly trained to perform these missions in all weather conditions. It has special lifting systems and weapons. It can penetrate undetected deep into enemy territory using stealth technology and special tactics. It can also be refueled in flight without landing.

As the team strapped in, two crewmembers took stations at M-240 machine guns on opposite sides of the aircraft, both equipped with infrared fire control systems that compensate for aircraft motion. The strike team was a little edgy as the twin turbine engines began to spool up, each producing over sixteen hundred horsepower. The aircraft vibrated violently until the ship was airborne, with the landing gear retracted.

The terrain between Kirkuk and Tehran was all mountainous, good for hiding below radar but hard to navigate. Several peaks were too high for the helicopter to fly over, so the pilots had been plotting routes through the valleys and flying simulations for hours. The route took over two hours with frequent turns matching the terrain. The region had no villages or towns, and the crew didn't expect any opposition going in. The helicopter would fly a different course returning to base. The flight was at the maximum range for the helicopter without refueling.

The big helicopter banked, rose and fell continuously making the team woozy, but the moonlight gave a spectacular view, flying through the mountains. The pilots had charted a course avoiding known military outposts. They could not predict roving patrols, which had been increased in the mountains near the Iraq border with heightened fears of a U.S. invasion.

Flying through the West Alborz Mountain range was complicated by the tall mountains. Five peaks rose above thirteen thousand feet, with dozens over ten thousand. The combat helicopter could not fly over them. They had to navigate around. The flight control system had been programmed with the complete three-dimensional course map, so the pilots watched for unforeseen obstacles and antiaircraft weapons. The complex route made it impossible to deviate from the flight plan. If they encountered insurmountable enemy opposition along the planned route, they would have no choice but to return to base.

Although the helicopter was noisy inside, it had special rotors and an engine muffling system that made it hard to detect from the ground beyond a few hundred feet. It was after midnight and the team felt confident that they would not be detected going in. After thirty minutes in the air, Peter was able to close his eyes and relax. He thought about the pilots jogging around every terrain feature while their vision was tunneled through NVGs. It took courage to trust the flight computer to stay close to the earth, yet avoid obstacles. There was no margin for error. It's not in the nature of pilots to give up control of their craft, and they had to be alert for uncharted obstructions, such as new power lines or communication towers. Fortunately, this part of Iran was undeveloped. Enemy gunfire and missiles were the main reason they needed to remain vigilant. This mission, because of its duration and rugged landscape, required intense concentration, flying at the boundaries of human endurance for several hours. Everyone's lives depended on the skill of the pilots.

### Ops Center

In the basement of the Pentagon, the operations center was fully staffed. The forward part of the auditorium contained a bank of huge LCD color displays. Military personnel skilled in their various specialties sat at their consoles. Communications with the strike team were managed initially through the aircraft systems, but once the team was on the ground, they would use a portable satellite station from a location in the hills above Western Tehran. As the ground team moved away from the fixed base in the mountains, they would use small PRC-112 survival radios with enough range to reach high altitude aircraft for relay back to the hanger in Baghdad.

The operations center was under the command of Lt. General John Simmons, who would stay on duty until the mission was over. There were limited sleeping facilities, but Simmons wouldn't sleep anyway until the op was over.

The center was controlling several multi-camera satellites from Air Force Space Command. The classified birds were redirected into synchronous orbit above Tehran. The central display was the size of a multiplex cinema screen showing a virtual map of the whole country. In this case, the display had been zoomed into the northwest quadrant including the entire flight path from Kirkuk. On the screen, there was a small blue triangle with an elongated point moving through the mountains toward Tehran. Simmons remained at the commander's station watching the progress and listening to all dialogue being broadcast throughout the center.

Everyone was calm and the communications kept to a minimum. Everything was progressing as planned.

Access to the OC was restricted. Simmons received special authorization from the Army Chief of Staff to allow Rachael inside, but as the operation was beginning, she stayed in her office, unsure if she wanted be there. She had seen Peter in action when they met in Chicago, but they were not in love then.

### In Country

Two hours into the flight, Peter pulled the survival radio from his leg pocket in his Desert Camouflage Uniform (DCU), "Base Bravo, this is Striker One, radio check, over."

There was an immediate response in his handset, "Roger Striker One, copy five by five, over."

"Striker One, out."

He was satisfied that he had connection with the Pentagon.

Aboard the helicopter, the interior light provided a weak red glow. Peter looked at his team who were already checking their gear. The pilot signaled the crew chief that they were five minutes from touchdown. The helicopter only had enough fuel to stay on location a few minutes.

Blomstein had picked the landing zone based on its remoteness in the mountains above Tehran with a clear line of sight above the section of town with government residences. The team felt the helicopter slow down, followed by a rotor pitch change as it went into a low hover, with the aircraft positioned into the wind, slightly nose-up. The crew chief had already removed the waste gun, and slid the door forward. The strike team released their safety harnesses and slid two containers toward the opening. A cable with a penetrating weight system was capable of lowering a thousand pounds more than two hundred feet through the trees to the ground. When the first container was attached, Stokes jumped on top grabbing the cable as it tipped outside, and lowered to a rocky plateau surrounded by trees.

Less than a minute later the second container, with both Peter and Blomstein aboard, hit the ground hard, sending them tumbling while Stokes unhooked the payload. Within seconds, the cable was hoisted above and the helicopter disappeared in the night. It was silent on the mountaintop except for a gentle cold wind blowing through the trees. Peter had not planned for the cold weather, and their desert clothing was inadequate for the mountains where snow still covered parts of the ground. The team all wanted to move fast to overcome some of the chill.

Back at the OC, technicians were sending signals to increase magnification from one of the thermal cameras in the DSP satellite. The body heat of the men could be seen momentarily under the trees before a computer took over, producing blue circular icons for the three men superimposed on the landscape. They were able to watch the men on the ground halfway around the world.

On the mountain, the team remained motionless for several seconds, listening for any unnatural or unusual sounds. When satisfied that they were undetected, they began opening the containers and removing supplies.

The first equipment to be set up was a tripod with a specialized binocular system that had a daylight telescopic lens, plus a night thermal imaging lens with a laser. Blomstein began a visual reconnaissance, slowly panning the system in a circle, checking for any sign of life or vehicles on the hills surrounding them. Peter and Stokes removed backpacks and other equipment cases. When everything was assembled, they covered the containers with brush in a ravine, and then began hiking toward the next peak that overlooked the section of Tehran they were targeting.

The only radio dialogue was a brief burst transmission, "Bravo, this is Striker One. Team is en route to Waypoint Two. ETA is 0430 local, out."

There was a brief confirming message from the OC as they climbed up the side of the mountain, then preceded east along a ridge. Loose jagged rocks made climbing difficult with each man carrying over fifty pounds. There was enough starlight to navigate across the forbidding terrain, but there was no trail.

It took two hours to reach a suitable camp location with a clear view of the northwest part of the city. They stopped climbing below the tree line, where there was an abundance of natural cover. They had one M14 sharpshooter rifle three M4 assault rifles and three M9 pistols.

They set up the camp quickly and were ready to reconnoiter the area just as the sun began to rise. They did a quick perimeter check with the binoculars then sat together eating cold MREs. Between bites, Peter scanned the city below. They had a clear view of the residential mansions eight miles away. As the sun rose higher in the sky, ultraviolet rays began reacting with air pollutants and the view was obscured with smog, which had not been anticipated.

They spent the day reviewing street maps and images from the sighting system. Peter knew this part of the city from ground level, but the other men had only seen satellite pictures. Peter and Blomstein would go into the city using radio communications to verify the target, while Captain Stokes would stay on the mountain operating the laser designator.

The day passed quickly as they worked out the final details of the plan. As dusk fell, they changed into civilian clothes under their DCUs. Their identification indicated that they were Canadian oil company employees. If they were questioned, the CIA, which operated the business, would validate them. They started hiking down the mountain.

Back at the OC, Simmons watched the icons move slowly through the terrain toward the city. It would be more than ten hours before they were in location. There were no red icons within miles, which would have indicated unidentified humans or vehicles, so it seemed certain that the team would be safe for a while. He decided to get some sleep and instructed his executive officer to wake him immediately if there was any voice communication or any unfriendly movement in their vicinity. Rachael had not come into the OC.

### Up Close

After stumbling and sliding several times, Peter and Blomstein reached the bottom of the mountain hours later. Upon reaching a dirt road, they removed and hid their military uniforms, radios and weapons. They marked the spot with several rocks. Their civilian clothes were reasonably clean and they carried luggage for an overnight stay.

They followed the dirt path for about a mile before reaching a two-lane paved road that led to the city. They were less than two miles from the outskirts as the sun began to rise. Morning commuters and shopkeepers began crowding the streets just as they reached the edge of the mall with the Museums, which were not yet opened. There were many more men in military uniforms than Peter's last visit. On his last mission, the city was peaceful, but there was more tension this time. It was only minutes before they were challenged while crossing the plaza.

A young soldier walked toward them, stopping about ten feet away, saying something in Farsi. Peter responded, "We don't understand. Do you speak English?"

"Yes, am learn'ed at the University. Are you Americans?"

Blomstein responded, "No, Canadian."

"Please, let me see identifications."

They pulled out their passports, which included boarding passes indicating that they had arrived earlier in the morning by airplane. The soldier demanded, "So, what is your business in Iran?"

Peter responded, "We work for an oil company and are here to research possible purchasing agreements with Iranian companies."

"Where are you staying?"

"We have reservations at the Evin hotel, but cannot check in until later today."

"What are you doing here early in the morning?"

Peter responded, "We thought we would visit the museums and walk around before going to the hotel; we are very tired and want to sleep early."

The soldier stepped away and used his radio to communicate their information to someone unseen. After a minute of dialogue the soldier returned his radio to its holster and approached them. He seemed edgy and unsure, but handed back their papers and told them it was dangerous for Westerners to roam around the city.

Walking away, Peter looked at Blomstein commenting, "Something's wrong, this is more security than I've ever seen. Be alert."

He then pulled an iPod from his pocket, which was modified by the CIA as a short-range transceiver. Holding one of the earpieces near his mouth, he pretended to blow on it, saying, "Striker Two, copy?"

With the second earpiece in his ear, he heard "Roger. Copy."

"Striker One, out."

Placing the second earpiece in his ear, he was grateful that the communicator worked at this range.

They took a taxi to the Evin and got a single room with twin beds. They were careful to talk only as men on a business trip while in the room.

In the early evening, they took a taxi back to the museum district, but this time walked directly to the adjoining streets leading to Abu Qatada's residence. Peter felt awkward trying to look casual strolling toward the tree-lined boulevard fronting the executive mansions. There were no other civilians on the street and military vehicles blockaded traffic from entering.

"Josh, this isn't normal."

Continuing to walk, Josh said, "You're creeping me out, Peter."

"Stay alert."

They would draw unwanted attention from the military police by turning away, so they continued walking up the street like lost tourists. Peter wore a ball cap and big sun glasses in case Abu Qatada should drive past. As they approached the barricade, another soldier challenged their business in the district and checked their papers again.

Peter explained, "We went to the museums, then saw this beautiful street, so we wanted to take some pictures."

In good English, the soldier said, "We do not allow tourists, you must leave."

Blomstein replied, "Okay, we don't want any trouble."

Walking away, Peter said, "We need to find a spot where we can observe Qatada coming and going."

### Observers

At the Pentagon, General Simmons awoke in the back of the OC before six and immediately requested a situation report. The officer on duty explained that the strike team was in the area close to the residence. They had no voice communications. Simmons acknowledged and took command.

About an hour later, Rachael was admitted to the operation center. Simmons was pleased to see her.

"Hello Rachael, welcome to the Operations Center."

"Thanks General, this place is huge. So, how does all this work?"

Simmons took her on a short walking tour overlooking dozens of control stations and explained, "People here are all doing different things, supporting the mission. We are in communications with several resources from different commands involved. The displays show us computer generated imagery, or real images, of the ground action. Would you like to see where Peter is right now?"

Without forcing her to respond, Simmons pointed to the center large screen display, "You see those blue circle icons on the screen?"

She took a moment to orient, "What am I looking at?"

"The basic image is a photo composition background of satellite images taken recently, the last few days, of The Northwestern section of Tehran. We can enlarge or shrink the area with computers, but right now it's optimized to show the area we consider vital to controlling the battle scene. Sorry, it shouldn't be called a battle. It's not a battle. Anyway, we have special sensors, radars and cameras that are tracking our people and other assets that are in the area. We can also track Opfor (opposing forces)."

Rachael stepped forward a half step and stared for a moment, "So, which icon is Peter?"

"Okay, he's one of those two circles that overlap each other in the lower right quadrant. The circle to the left, up in the mountain, is Captain Stokes. He can see the residential area from up in the mountains. The Iranian dignitaries like to enjoy the view. In this case, it's crucial to the mission plan, Peter's plan."

She continued staring, "Do they ever talk? Can you hear them?"

"We broadcast all of their radio communications, but the team in the city doesn't have a radio. They are essentially blending in as tourists."

"What are they able to do in the city?"

"Basically, they are going to verify when the target is at home."

"Oh."

From the area on the screen, it was hard to detect any motion of the icons, but Peter and Blomstein were moving. They walked south on the boulevard about two blocks away from the blockade as the sun began to set, then turned right on a cross street. Walking one block, they turned right again heading north on the street parallel to the mansions. Here, people were strolling along the street together or walking dogs.

They slowed the pace on the second block, examining the houses. There were three houses in the center of the block that looked deserted. Josh whispered, "Peter, these places might be vacant to protect the guy on the other side. They could expect him to be in danger."

"Yeah, it does look like that. Let's reconnoiter to the end of the block."

They continued walking north and found the cross street between the boulevards was also blocked. Peter said, "Okay let's walk back, but stay in the shadows as much as possible. It anyone comes at us, just act like we're out for an evening stroll."

"Roger that."

Some of the Iranian soldiers were facing in their direction as they turned as casually as possible and began walking back down the block. No one followed as they slowed and searched for signs that anyone was watching them. When nobody was spotted, Peter said, "Jump!"

They leapt to the top of a stone block fence beside the sidewalk, then down onto the ground behind the wall. Neither one moved, listening for indications of danger.

Communicating with hand gestures, they moved through the front yard then past the side of the house into the backyard. They stopped at the back yard wall. Peering over, the house beyond was also dark. Without speaking, they jumped over the rear wall into the next yard and ran to the side of the house. Foundation shrubs provided concealment, as they moved closer to the front wall. They were directly across the street from Abu Qatada's residence.

Powerful spotlights surrounded the minister's compound and every interior light seemed to be on. Outside, the grounds and street were as bright as day. Peter whispered, "Man, no wonder these houses are vacant, it's like living on the strip in Vegas. There must be an entire company guarding the house."

They didn't know how long they would be there, and hiding in daylight would be impossible.

They sat on the ground next to the foundation looking through openings in the landscaping. Soldiers were relaxed, but holding their posts. Peter and Blomstein decided to alternate watches for anything that changed. Blomstein was first, while Peter explored the grounds around their hiding place. If their vigil lasted until the morning, they would need better cover, or to return to the hotel. Hours went by. Then near morning, an officious soldier began sprinting around the perimeter shouting orders. He had the guard force all standing rigidly at attention for several minutes when a limousine came up the street without slowing at the blockade. Peter alerted Blomstein and was crouching, trying to improve his view.

As the car slowed at the driveway, the iron gate opened. It drove onto the property and stopped near a formal hedge bordering a walkway to the front of the mansion. A passenger in the front seat got out as the car stopped and opened the rear door. The man wore a business suit and was built like a bodyguard.

Peter removed the communicator from his pocket and placed one earpiece button in his ear, speaking into the other one, "Striker Two, come in."

"Striker Two, copy."

Peter responded, "Standby."

The man in the back of the car exited with a regal air, dressed in a flowing white gown and headdress. Peter could not be sure of his identity. As the man walked to the door, lighting obscured his vision and he could only see the man's back. Pulling his camera up and moving to maximum zoom, he was unable to see clearly in the synthetic light. He was worried about reflections from the lens, but had to risk it.

The man in the robe stopped briefly to talk to the guard nearest to the door, presumably the officer in charge. He could see his robed profile, but no facial details. The officer turned and stepped ahead to open the door. As he did so, the robed man stopped again and turned to thank him. Using camera magnification, Peter could see the facial features silhouetted by the light of the entry inside the house. Ali Abu Qatada looked as distinctive as he had when leaving the airplane at Andrews months before. Peter recognized him and speaking into the headset said, "Striker Two, mother has returned. Confirmed, mother has returned. Acknowledge, over."

In a calm level voice he heard, "Striker Two, acknowledged, over."

Peter responded, "Commence, over and out."

"Striker Two. Commence, out."

Peter signaled Blomstein to move back the way they came.

### Mission Stage Two

At the OC, a second large-screen display had been illuminated. Simmons explained to Rachael, "That second display is real-time thermal imagery of the target house. Something must be happening and the analysts put it up there."

They both watched intensely as a voice was broadcast, "Bravo, this is Striker Two, target has been confirmed. Request permission to paint. Please advise when bird is in position, over."

Somewhere among the consoles below, an officer responded, "Striker Two, this is Weaps. The package is en route. Will advise, over."

"Roger, weaps, out"

Simmons said, "Rachael, in a few minutes more icons will start to appear on the middle screen. It's going to get livelier around here shortly. At this point, Peter should be on his way out."

She clasped her hands then went rigid with fists to her side. Her adrenalin was starting to flow as she whispered a silent prayer.

Several of the console operators in the OC were talking to each other and working on keyboards.

Simmons said, "Look, you see that silver wedge coming across the shoreline from the Caspian Sea?"

"Yes."

"That's an unmanned aircraft called a Predator, it's carrying two laser guided missiles."

Moments later he said, "Now, you see that blue wedge moving through the mountains? That's the helicopter starting to come to pick up our boys."

She watched in fascination. Everything seemed to be going so perfectly.

### Predator

At Creech Air Force Base, Nevada, a pilot and weapons control officer sat beside each other flying an unmanned airplane halfway around the world. The pilot had a full set of instruments displayed on the LCD screen ahead of her. The weapons control officer had another display with video from a camera in the nose of the airplane. At three thousand feet, he could see the lights of Tehran ahead. He had another display showing the status of two AGM-114 Hellfire laser guided missiles loaded aboard the aircraft.

The Predator had been flying in a circle over the ocean for hours before receiving the message to fly to the target. It would be less than ten minutes before it was in firing range. At the OC, they were also looking at the aircraft video. There was a reticule superimposed on the video screen. Several operators at consoles were watching the scene as Tehran came into view. Then the scene went black as the plane banked to the right, preparing to attack from a more direct angle.

Over the PA system, Rachael heard a voice say, "Target is within range, request designation."

Another voice commanded, "Striker Two, paint the target. Repeat, paint the target. Acknowledge."

"Striker Two, painting the target. Acknowledged, out."

On the ground, Captain John Stokes was laying prone alone in the dark atop a mountain peering through his observation system at the target. The AN/PED-1 Lightweight Laser Designator/Rangefinder was the standard Army device used to identify targets at long range and to fire an invisible laser beam to guide "smart" munitions to their point of impact. The system was placed on a short tripod, and he had been watching the building for hours through both visible and infrared cameras. After receiving the order to illuminate the target, he lifted the red safety cover and switched the laser to "designate." By placing his optical crosshairs in the center of the target building, he pressed the trigger, activating the laser.

The designator shot a pencil-thin beam of high energy light in a straight line from the system to the building. It was invisible to the human eye, so neither Stokes nor the guards around the building could see anything unusual.

Aboard the aircraft, the missile camera had special electronics that could "see" the laser spot reflected from the building. The weapons control officer received a signal from the missile indicating that it had acquired the spot. In less than a minute after Stokes began painting the building, the weapons officer received a confirmation from the missile that the seeker had a firm lock on the spot. He pressed his talk button on his joystick controller, "Bravo, we have positive lock on the target, and no cloud cover. Request permission to fire."

Rachael heard the PA systems blare, "Permission to fire, granted. Repeat, granted. Confirm."

"Fox One away. Fox One away."

The Hellfire missile can be fired up to five miles away from the target. It weighs slightly over one hundred pounds and carries a twenty-pound explosive warhead. It can be configured with several different guidance systems, but this mission was using the direct laser designation to assure pinpoint accuracy.

Stokes had the PRC-117 radio lying on the ground beside him and heard the launch verification. One eye continued to keep the target designated, while his other eye saw the flash of the missile motor streaming across the sky from the Predator several thousand feet below him. Total flight time for the missile was under three seconds.

### Escape

After verifying their target, Peter and Blomstein moved cautiously through the yards, back to the street parallel to the mansion. It was quiet in the early morning hours as they began walking south toward the museum district. It was much too early to be touring and they were careful to stay in the shadows and not move suddenly, but they also needed to be out of the area before the missile hit.

As they began to cross the street at the end of the first block, a police car turned on lights and drove toward them. They crossed the street and continued walking as the car pulled alongside and the officer said something in Farsi. Peter kept walking but looked at the man and gave an exaggerated shrug.

"Stop!" The order was shouted as the officer pulled ahead of them with his car and stepped out.

"What are you doing here at this time?" The officer had his hand on his gun pommel, but didn't draw.

Peter answered, "I think we're lost. We were on the plaza by the museums and we're trying to find the train."

"The museums have been not opened for hours and the train is on the other side of the plaza. You will stay with me!"

"Look officer, we're just here on business and wanted to see some of your city tonight."

The officer responded, "Let me see your papers!"

After glancing at the two passports, he instructed them to move five paces in front of the car and to stay there.

He took their passports and went into the car to use the radio. Peter and Blomstein looked at each other, but remained still. After several dispatch exchanges the officer dropped their passports on the front seat of the car and commanded them, "More police are coming and you must wait here without moving." His hand remained threateningly poised by his gun.

On the mountain above the city, Stoke's radio crackled, "Striker Two, do you copy, over."

"This is Striker Two, over."

As Peter and Blomstein stood waiting in front of the nervous Iranian, the sky flashed brilliant red followed by a massive explosion one block away. Both men charged the distracted policeman. The man reacted slowly. Blomstein tackled him low, while Peter took his upper body, slamming him to the sidewalk hard. With a palm thrust hard into the policeman's jaw cracking his skull, he was dead in seconds. Peter took his gun and ran to the car, which was still running, as Blomstein ran to the other side.

At the OC, the secondary screen bloomed as the fireball engulfed Abu Qatada's home. There was a quick cheer, then everyone went to work to help recover the soldiers. Rachael didn't care about anything else.

### Pursuit

With the explosion behind them, the strike team raced in the car in the opposite direction of the responders coming from all directions. The policeman had just radioed their capture when the explosion occurred. Peter remembered some of the streets. He was pressing the accelerator hard, heading northwest using intersecting streets, looking for a familiar route out of the city. It would only be minutes before everything was blockaded.

As he turned onto the main boulevard past the train station, he could see military trucks coming from behind. They were all racing to the outskirts of the city to seal it off. He found a switch on the dash of the car that activated the lights and siren.

At the OC the blue symbols had changed for Peter and Blomstein, they had merged into a single blue triangle moving faster than before. Simmons ordered the screen returned to native display momentarily. As he and Rachael starred at the screen, they could see flashing police car lights driving fast on the streets. Simmons ordered the display changed again and the police car changed back into a blue triangle. He said, "That explains why they're moving faster, they stole a police car."

Rachael didn't respond.

Simmons ordered, "I want AWACS and J-STARS on line ASAP!"

There were acknowledgments over the PA system. AWACS was an air force version of the 707 airliner with a large radar dish mounted on top capable of tracking aircraft within a two hundred fifty mile radius. Jointstars (J-STARS) was another 707 airframe with a synthetic-aperture radar installed below the fuselage that tracks all ground targets. Both aircraft had been airborne on the border, so Simmons was simply verifying their positions and alerting the crews.

As they watched the display, numerous red triangles appeared behind Shields' car. Rachael was feeling sick again. Simmons began issuing orders, wanting to have regular updates on the status of the recovery helicopter and other assets. He ordered the Predator to remain "on station" as well. Everyone was calm but alert at the consoles. Orders were issued precisely.

On the mountain, Stokes had loaded the gear onto his back and was moving toward the landing zone. It had taken two hours to move before, but he was moving twice as fast this time. The Pave Hawk might have to provide air cover if Peter and Blomstein were in trouble.

On the streets, Peter drove as fast as possible, but cross streets were becoming hazardous, as emergency vehicles seemed to be moving in all directions ignoring signals. They needed to get out before everything was sealed. He turned off the radio, which was becoming congested with calls he could not understand. Lights in the mirrors showed that vehicles were starting to follow them.

He could see the end of street lighting ahead as he accelerated to a dangerous speed. In less than a minute, they would be out of the improved areas of the city, heading toward the recovery point, but they could not spend hours hiking into the mountains with military chasing them. He needed to get to his radio.

At the OC the PA system sounded, "Pave Hawk nearing the LZ, ETA four minutes."

Simmons looked at the plot and commanded, "Have them land and conserve fuel, some of our boys are going to be late."

A colonel at the nearest console said, "Sir, the Iranians will use airpower to take out the Hawk, delaying departure will endanger the crew."

Simmons responded hotly, "We're not leaving our boys behind!"

No one wanted to argue with a three star at that point.

After a moment, Simmons ordered, "Get Central Command on the horn. Expedite!"

Moments later the PA blared, "Sir, CENTCOM on line one."

He picked up the handset, "Simmons."

Rachael listened as Simmons demonstrated his leadership by chewing out a Brigadier General in Baghdad, "Look, Buck, I don't give a flying fuck about your opinion, get two Raptors on the flightline with a full load. If we need them, I'm going to use them." He listened to objections again and shouted, "Then screw the State Department, I don't give a shit if they think I declared war on Iran personally."

Simmons slammed the phone down and continued looking at the situation board. Rachael was confused with all of the actions being taken, and stayed in the background.

She could see that Peter was in a desperate situation in a car, unarmed with a whole country's military about to pounce on him. She felt hopeless.

Both men in the stolen police car were straining to see behind. Numerous vehicles were chasing them. Peter yelled, "Josh, help me find that dirt road!"

"Roger that boss." Blomstein remained a cool character. Moments later, Blomstein yelled, "There it is! Turn hard right—now!"

The car nearly rolled over, skidding onto the dirt road. Peter pressed the accelerator down harder as the suspension bottomed several times, but the car held together. They could see muzzle flashes from behind, but none had hit the car yet. Then the back window exploded in hundreds of glass shards. The dust trail was thick and the attackers could not see well. He turned off the siren and strobe lights, but kept the headlights on to drive. The car would not hold together long on the dirt path, but they only had to go a mile. He yelled, "There! There's our gear!"

The pile of rocks was unmistakable. He jammed the brakes on hard, and they jumped while the car was still rolling. They tumbled on the rocky ground getting cut and bruised, but were able to leap to their equipment cache. The chase vehicles stopped a few hundred feet behind, and the troops jumped out into brush on both sides of the road. Blomstein fired judiciously as Peter put on his pack and recovered his weapons. They protected each other while getting ready to move.

At the OC Rachael sat and turned away from the displays. Without sound, it was surreal, but the internal dialogue was all about a firefight. Suddenly, she heard Peter's voice. He was breathing hard, running through the desert. "Command, this is Striker One, we're pinned down and need air support! We have minor wounds, but are mobile!"

One of the console staff started to speak when Simmons interceded, "Striker One, can you hold near the road for one minute?"

When he answered, there was the sound of gunfire in the background. Breathing hard, his voice came through in the characteristic monotone of military transmissions, "Ah, Command—hold one, (gunfire). Command, they're moving to flank both sides. Over."

Simmons wasn't listening closely. Instead, he was firing other instructions. He answered, "Striker One, stay low and strip gear, be ready to move out fast and light, over."

"Roger, out (more gunfire)."

On the screen in the OC the red and blue circles converged. Rachael was sick to her stomach and turned to the General in tears, unable to speak. She just wanted to leave the area. Simmons grabbed her by both arms forcing her to look at him, "Rachael! Rachael! We're doing everything we can to get them out! Try to stay cool."

She pulled away and ran from the center, going back to her office to wait. She'd heard too much.

On the ground, Peter ordered Blomstein, who was trying to keep the left flank from advancing, "Josh, strip off gear, Command orders."

"What? Strip? Major, that's crazy, these guys are on top of us!"

"Do it! Do it now!"

Blomstein angrily threw his M4 down and dropped his ammo belt and radio. Moments later, Shields' radio blared, "Striker One, Broken Arrow, Broken Arrow!"

Simmons was communicating that he had ordered a direct attack on their position, telling them to take cover. Both men instinctively dove to the sand between moguls and buried their faces.

Predator turned on approach and used its own onboard gimbaled laser to illuminate the field. The launch authority had already been given. In Nevada, the weapons office declared, "Pickle's hot, firing!"

The Iranians didn't have time to react after a momentary flare from the missile motor, before it exploded in their midst. Many died instantly and more were knocked senseless or wounded severely. Peter and Blomstein recovered quickly and began shooting dazed soldiers that were standing on their perimeter. As they fired, the Predator pilot turned on landing lights and used the video camera in its belly to land on the dirt road near the strike team.

Peter sensed what Simmons had contrived and threw down his weapon, grabbing Blomstein by the collar to follow him. The two men sprinted toward the road while the Iranians were still unable to respond. The Rangers had not had time for boots, and rushing through the rocks and dense brush was difficult. Both men stumbled several times, but kept moving despite ankle sprains. Dirt in their eyes made it difficult to see. The unmanned plane was over a hundred yards away and they ran to get there while the Iranians recovered from the missile blast. They could hear the sound of the small turbocharged engine idling, but then also heard gunfire behind them.

At the OC, the main display switched to a thermal camera that could see the ground at night. Several officers quietly cheered, urging the strike team to get to the bird. Two blue circles were running along the road and the outline of the plane could be seen ahead of them. The thermal image also showed the heat traces of bullets streaking past them. One of the runners fell. The heat-generated image was poor, not good enough to tell which one was down. The command team watched as the second runner stopped and went back for his comrade as white streaks shot past, inches away from his body.

Peter grabbed Blomstein and helped him up. The bullet had ripped through his right hip and he couldn't run anymore. If he had not been in extreme pain, Blomstein would have told Peter to save himself, but he was out of his senses as Peter threw him over his shoulder and kept moving toward the plane. Another bullet tore through his right sleeve, but missed.

Rachael sat quietly in her office with the door closed. She hated Simmons and hated Peter for volunteering for a suicide mission. She knew they were outnumbered and outgunned with no support that could get to them in time. Tears streamed down her face as she thought of Peter mortally wounded.

On the ground in Iran, Peter reached the plane. Blomstein was conscious and seemed to be lucid. He threw Josh across the left wing next to the fuselage avoiding the rear propeller as he ran behind the tail boom to the other side to balance the load. The Predator is essentially a radio-controlled aircraft with no cockpit or passenger capability. As Peter jumped aboard, lying flat on the wing, Simmons gave an order and the Predator began to accelerate. The aircraft has a load capacity of four hundred pounds when full of fuel, but had used at least three hundred pounds of fuel and shot both missiles. With the additional aerodynamic resistance of the two men, takeoff was risky and not a sure thing, but at least they were mobile.

At Creech, the pilot was sweating profusely with a 3-star issuing the orders, trying to manage a smooth takeoff with a slow climb rate. The plane was gaining speed and Peter suddenly found himself looking for a handhold of some kind. Across the plane, he saw Blomstein's hand jab downward with a knife. With wind in his face at forty miles per hour, he reached to his belt and pulled his throwing knife free. jamming it hard into the thin composite wing skin under his chin. He put one hand over the wing and one held the knife hilt tightly. The plane bounced on the dirt road, before lifting off at about fifty miles an hour. They were flying -- if they could hold on.

At the OC another cheer went up as the men went airborne, both alive. On the wing of the Predator, they were holding on for their lives as the plane gained altitude, aimed at the top of the mountain ridge ahead. At Creech, the pilot tried to maintain the wings level just above stall speed, fifty miles per hour.

On the large screen, the display turned back to the virtual presentation. Predator could be seen moving toward the LZ where the helicopter was waiting. Simmons was watching intensely. They had no way to communicate with the men on the Predator. He picked up the radio handset again and issued instructions to the Predator pilot.

The pilot responded, "Sir, it's night time and the terrain is all rocks and trees. I can't land."

Simmons responded, "Then crash the son of a bitch, I want those boys on that helo, do whatever you can to help them survive, that's an order, Simmons out."

Sweat ran in rivulets on the pilot's face. She was ordered to deliberately crash the plane. Two lives were at stake and the flying character of the aircraft was abnormal. Even though she was safe sitting at the control console, she felt a vicarious connection with the two souls that were now depending on her to get them down alive.

Peter's eyes were streaming tears from the wind. The plane was flying nose high, helping them hold on to the slick wings. The engine was laboring, but they were gaining altitude.

At the OC, Simmons ordered a situation check on Striker Two. A voice sounded over the PA, "Striker Two, report, over."

Breathing heavily, John Stokes reported, "Striker Two, I'm thirty minutes from the LZ, over."

Simmons barked, "Tell him to hold."

At some point Rachael had reentered the OC, but remained unobtrusive as everyone worked at a frantic pace.

The General ordered the Pave Hawk to deviate from the LZ and go to Striker Two's position. They could pick him up at a hover in the rough terrain, then return to retrieve Peter and Blomstein. The Pilot insisted on talking to the General, "Sir, respectfully request to stay shut down at the LZ, we're bingo fuel and our position will be disclosed."

Simmons responded, "Understand pilot, now follow instructions. Return to the LZ ASAP and help Striker One and Three get aboard. We'll solve other problems as they occur, over and out."

Some of the OC senior officers starred briefly at Simmons realizing that he wasn't following protocol and could be risking his career.

The Pave Hawk was airborne and over Striker Two in less than a minute. Two minutes later, Stokes was winched aboard with all of his equipment, then the helicopter rushed back to the mountain top LZ.

Soon after Stokes was recovered and the Blackhawk had returned to the LZ, Predator was less than a mile out. It took extraordinary pilot skill to match the awkward flight characteristics caused by the men over the wings and flying near stall speed. Her next challenge was to crash the bird without killing anyone.

As the plane approached the ridge, Peter sensed a change in profile and could see the ridge of the mountain ahead. He yelled to Blomstein, "Steady yourself buddy, this thing's landing."

The pilot wanted to give the riders some notion of her plans, so she crossed the ridgeline just above the treetops trying to gage her best options. At the OC, the plot had changed back to a thermal picture.

Beyond the ridge, the trees were short evergreens, fairly uniform in height. So the pilot skimmed over several trees until she found a dense cluster close to the LZ. She flew at it to be sure the passengers could see what was ahead. Peter was alert, and he hoped Blomstein was also. At least Blomstein was still holding on.

The pilot added power and flew over the cluster before banking to the right in a wide gentle circle. As she lined up with the trees again, she raised the nose to stall attitude and flew the plane almost on its tail at the cluster. The ground speed was only thirty miles per hour at impact as the plane stalled.

The pilot timed things perfectly, killing the engine as the plane hit the trees. The small pines bent with the blow and both men were thrown forward, crashing through small branches to the ground below.

The aircrew and Stokes were there in seconds helping them. Both were alive, but Blomstein was unconscious. Peter was alert and able to stand after a few moments. The Crew chief yelled, "We've got to go now! Hurry!"

Everyone was aboard the chopper in less than a minute and the big rotors began to spin. Back at the OC, fingers were crossed as everyone felt the sense of a successful mission. Then the PA blared again, "Fighter aircraft preparing for takeoff, Tehran International Airport, estimate wheels up under five minutes."

Simmons was on the command set again, "Bravo base, release Raptors, repeat release Raptors. ATC will give you vector, acknowledge."

The OC went quieter for a short time with several console operators engaged in dialogue with unseen counterparts.

The voice over the PA system announced, "Multiple bogies, four o'clock, just lifting off Tehran Airport."

Simmons took charge, "Rescue One, bogies inbound, you must depart now. Evade. Air cover is on the way, over."

"Roger that Command. Over."

As the helicopter lifted off the mountain with everyone aboard, the pilot and copilot double-checked their missile countermeasures. Their only chances of survival, without help, were to avoid detection and use the electronic warfare tools aboard.

At the OC the PA system sounded, "Command, four bogies turning to two-eight-zero degrees and climbing through ten thousand. Speed three-five-zero and accelerating."

In the mountains, Pave Hawk was accelerating to its top speed, which was dangerous when skimming only feet above the terrain. One small mistake and they would crash. At this speed flying through mountains, it was very difficult for fighters to engage them. Missiles get confused looking downward into rugged ground clutter. For the plane's fire control system to work effectively, the attackers would have to fly abnormally low through the same terrain, which very few jet pilots could do.

Peter looked after Blomstein. His hip wound was bleeding badly, and the injuries from the crash could have been serious. He applied a battle dressing with pressure and tried to make his friend comfortable. He kept talking to him gently as he held his head and kept his feet elevated. The helicopter was jinxing hard and everyone was tumbling.

At the command center, Simmons watched the displays closely. The Iranian pilots had formed over the mountains and were attempting to look down with sensors into mountain ravines for the invaders. They were not trained for this, but the Iranian President was adamant that they kill the interlopers or die trying.

The lead plane, a MIG 25 equipped with lookdown radar got a momentary lock on a fast moving target in a canyon below. He ordered his flight to follow at long intervals but not to fly below canyon height until he instructed them. He rolled inverted and accelerated toward the canyon. As he leveled out at the canyon top, he pulled the throttles back, extended flaps and landing gear, decelerating below two hundred knots. He settled into the canyon and began using his radar and missile seekers to find the target.

Aboard the helicopter, fuel was a problem, but the pilots were mostly concerned about the enemy aircraft. There had been momentary radar warnings in the cockpit. Then, the missile-warning receiver squawked continuously. The warning went from detection mode to homing mode quickly, and the pilot said, "Shit! The guy's right on our ass, the missile went to high PRF immediately! Fire chaff, fire flares."

As the helicopter spewed foil bags and phosphor flares, the command pilot yanked the stick back hard and rolled left, nearly going inverted before rolling out only feet from the ground. When he pulled out level again, the aircraft vibrated violently as the drive train gave way to stress. It was still able to fly but damaged. The pilots had saved them but destroyed the helicopter in the process.

The Iranian command pilot cursed, "Damned Americans! Such machines!" He had watched two radar-guided missiles explode in the hillside behind the helicopter following the decoys. He switched the controller to guns and wouldn't miss a second time. As he took aim for the killing shot, his radar-warning receiver screamed. Before he could react, a Slammer missile obliterated his airplane. The F22 Raptor had fired from fifteen thousand feet above doing over five hundred miles an hour. A second Raptor had engaged all three of the following fighters destroying them. These newest U.S. fighter airplanes had flown at speeds over two thousand miles per hour to get to the fight and would return to base at the same speed, never to be acknowledged over Iranian airspace.

The whole air battle had been seen at the OC, and a huge cheer went up as the last defender in Iran went down.

### Homecoming

Rachael had stopped breathing when the missiles were fired at the helicopter. But now she felt the same exuberance as the others. She had learned that Peter was okay. She looked at General Simmons and he smiled back. She wanted to hug him, but that could wait until he was outside the command environment. He had kept his promise.

She left the OC and decided to take the Metro home, screw her fears! Although alert and excited, she was mentally drained and fell asleep on her couch immediately after arriving home. She slept soundly for hours before Peter called. He and Stokes were still in Baghdad and would fly to Germany with Blomstein to the hospital. They would come home together as soon as Josh could travel. She understood and they talked affectionately for several minutes.

A week later, Blomstein was cleared to return to the U.S., but he would need therapy for several weeks. The three men were excited to see their loved ones and didn't sleep at all during the over-night flight. As the plane landed, all strained to look through the windows to see the people waiting at the terminal. As they exited the plane at Andrews AFB, Peter helped Blomstein down the steps and Stokes carried his gear. At the base of the stairs, Rachael ran to Peter as the other men's wives did the same. After their long embrace, he said, "Let's go home."

"All right, but this time you can drive, since I'm not hauling you off to the hospital!"

He chuckled and threw his bag over his shoulder as they walked to the car. Somehow the homecoming seemed a bit awkward. She was warm and welcoming, but not as affectionate as he had anticipated. The drive back was friendly, but subdued.

That night, as they did the dishes, he said, "Rachael, is there something wrong?"

She paused and stood motionless beside him, peering out the back window without looking at him. "Peter, I think I need some time to think this thing through." He started to talk when she continued. "Look, when you were gone this time, I went through hell. I was in the OC when you were being chased. It's a miracle that you survived." She gripped the counter, "I can't even express the emotions that shot through me."

She looked down and seemed to be waiting for a response. Looking at her obliquely, he said quietly, "Rachael, it was real close. When the General told us to drop gear and run for the bird, I felt out of control and my instinct was to stand and fight. We were both cooked and knew it."

"Peter, this isn't about reliving the fight, I don't want to ever think about it again. It's not relevant to what I'm trying to say."

Turning to her, he tried to pull her closer, against her will. "Honey, I'm sorry you were scared."

"That's still not it! Don't you get it?" She was upset.

"Rachael, I don't know what you're trying to say. Please don't tell me you don't love me."

"Peter, that's not it, I do love you. It's only that I went through an emotional collapse that I never want to feel again. That's the problem. I want to have a normal relationship and not be forced to relive another horror sequence in my life."

"Sweetheart, I don't think that will happen. This was a situation that got more dangerous than it should have. If we hadn't been stopped by the police. . ." His words trailed off as she turned away from him and walked toward the living room.

He followed her saying. "Sweetheart, what's going on? Has something changed with you, with us?"

She turned around to look at him, "Peter, I wasn't sure about anything until you got home. I'm still not sure. But, I'm not going to go through this again. I love you, I'll always love you, even if life takes us in separate directions."

She started to sob, but continued, "I, I didn't plan any of this tonight and maybe this is all foolish, but my feelings are taking control. I won't go through this again!"

He tried to console her, placing her face in his hands. "Sweetheart, what can I do? Do you want me to quit the Army? I'll do whatever you want, just say the word."

"No. Quitting the Army wouldn't work. You'd never forgive me."

"I did it before."

"No, you didn't! Not really. You were miserable when you resigned. I didn't know you then, but I saw how you were in your natural element in Chicago. I've seen it on this mission. You thrive on this stuff. Don't think for a minute that I would want you to give it up. You would never be happy."

"Rachael, I would do anything for you."

"No! I won't let you quit, but I won't be married to the Army either. Peter, you were in love long before you met me and I'm never going to be number one in your life. I know that now."

His emotions had been subdued for years, but were coming to the surface as his voice broke. "My love, Rachael, I, I don't know what to do. I love you more than my life, but you're backing away from me."

"No Peter, I'm not backing away from you." After a moment's hesitation, "I'm giving you back your freedom. Don't you know this is hard on me! This is ripping my heart too!" With that she turned to the stairs and jogged up to the bedroom.

He didn't follow. He was starting to understand how his actions were affecting her. She was right on so many things. Maybe she was right about this.

That night, he gathered his bag and drove to the Army barracks at Ft. Myer checking into the BOQ.

In the coming days, award ceremonies were held in private. Everyone involved in the operation was rewarded, but none of their exploits could be publicized. The CIA was assured that the money would be recovered, and the Iranian Secretary of Security had been the unfortunate victim of a natural gas explosion in his home.

Rachael had come to the military ceremonies and Peter's reception, and had kissed him on the cheek offering her congratulations. General Simmons briefly tried to mend their relationship, but Rachael didn't stay long. After she left, Peter spent time with his two comrades and their wives, then left quietly alone. He had been spending all of his evenings alone reflecting on the choices he had made in life, and the only person he had ever dared to love. She had been stronger than he. She understood her own emotions, but he would never rationalize her loss.

She was gone.

XXX End XXX

About the Author

Frank has worked with the military since 1966, first on active duty, then with industry. His background includes military operations, technology and involvement in most of the systems and organizations included in his books. In addition to the military, he has twenty years of experience supplying solutions to Federal, State and Municipal law enforcement involving tactics and equipment. He is currently a consultant in surveillance technologies used for Homeland Security. He lives in coastal New Hampshire. He welcomes comments and ideas/suggestions for new material. Feel free to contact him at: books.by.frank@gmail.com

