Within three days of the aborted SEAL search, Congress was crying for the President’s impeachment. The President had fired the Secretary of Defense, but not before the Secretary of Defense had removed General Pershing as Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. General Pershing had just finished demoting the Chief Admiral of the Navy. The Navy looked like fools, as did both the Pentagon and Langley. Word got out that a new super Intelligence Agency called TTIC had created the false lead in the first place. The newspapers and TV talk shows had a field day, and the late night comedians were outdoing themselves with wheelbarrows full of jokes. It was a complete and utter military, political, and Intelligence Community disaster. Had the PDB supported fonts for three-inch headlines, they would have been used over and over again.
A pall had fallen over the TTIC control room. At 10:30AM, three days after the Haramosh Star disaster, Turbee entered a room that was filled with depression, defeat, and the knowledge of their impending closure.
Dan was under pressure. There was already talk in the Congressional subcommittees that oversaw the Intelligence Community that TTIC had turned into an expensive boondoggle. Dan was getting the emails, hearing the whispers, and feeling the weight. It wasn’t good for him to be at the head of the agency that had screwed up.
“Turbee, goddamn you, you’re late,” he snarled as Turbee stumbled in the door.
Turbee ignored him and sat down, flipping on his various screens. One of his systems had the volume turned up a bit, and the boardroom could clearly hear the voice of Homer Simpson.
“Turbee, turn that shit off, and tell me why I shouldn’t shitcan you here and now!” Dan shouted.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he mumbled. “I really am.”
“Look at the bullshit you’ve caused. You tell us the Semtex is on one ship. It’s not there. Then you point us all in another wrong direction. The President took it in the teeth. TTIC is near death. Because you fucked up on your research, and led us all astray.” A fulminating Dan was watching his carefully crafted career, his rise to power, become thoroughly derailed by a wacko who was in love with Homer Simpson. The platinum-plated resume that his PR firm had built for him was spiraling down the toilet.
“Well, just a minute there, Dan—” Rahlson began.
“No, Rahlson. He screwed up. There was no Semtex on that ship.”
“Actually, Dan, there was,” said Turbee. “The SEAL guys just didn’t find it.”
“Excuse me?!” Dan practically screamed, now gathering a full head of steam.
“It was there, sir. It’s probably still there. The SEALs didn’t find it. The probability that it’s NOT on that ship is astronomically low. It’s got to be there. Uhh… somewhere on that ship.”
Dan drew a deep breath. He’d obviously heard enough. “That’s it Turbee, you’re done here. The Intelligence Community can do without you. You’re history. Fuck off. Pack your bags. Get out.”
“What?” asked a white-faced Turbee. “I’m sorry, Dan, you want me to go?” TTIC had been starting to look like a home to Turbee, in spite of the culture clash. Now this?
“Yes, I do. There’s the door. You’re out.”
A stunned Turbee rose slowly to his feet. He slouched toward the door, paler and thinner than he had ever been, his raccoon eyes filled with tears. Khasha noticed, as he limped out the door, that one sock was blue, the other green. She fought back a tear of her own.
“Jesus, Dan, you shouldn’t have done that,” said Rahlson. “The kid was doing his job. He’s smart. He’s just weird. You shouldn’t have done that.”
Dan made a chopping motion with his hand, cutting Rahlson off. He didn’t care what anyone else had to say about it. “This is my agency, isn’t it? It’s my decision who stays and who goes. I don’t want to hear another word.”
An angry and depressed gloom drifted through the room like dust in a desert wind. No one said much after that.
On the other side of the world, Yousseff was relaxing on one of the upper balconies of his Socotra home. The house was immense, covering more than 20,000 square feet, surrounded by pools and small waterfalls, with many verandas and balconies that all presented spectacular views of the surrounding Arabian Sea. His yacht, back from its rendezvous with the Haramosh Star, was anchored in the harbor just below his home. He was smoking a pipe of deliciously cooked opium, and watching the satellite feeds from the American media giants. He smiled. The USS Cushing crew had definitely been amusing. He could speak English as though he had been educated at Oxford, but had thought it would add to the fun to speak in the manner of a recent immigrant. “Oh no, sir. No sirree. Semtex, what is that? Oh no, not here kind sir…” Their reactions had been priceless.
Mustafa and his crew had performed brilliantly in Libya. But the Americans were clever, and seemed to have discovered the Semtex heist as soon as it happened. Yousseff had anticipated a chase to northern Darfur, and had a defense scheme in place. He hadn’t expected the Americans to be so quick, which had led to a malfunction in that defense plan. The Janjawiid had come on the scene a bit late, and the resulting affair showed just how dangerous the Americans were. What should have been a turkey shoot ended up with two dozen Janjawiid dead. Who knew Yankees could be so clever with puzzle pieces?
They had tracked down, and presumably captured via satellite, the reload to the Haramosh Star. But they had stumbled badly when they interdicted the small container ship. They had not counted on the magical technology of Karachi Drydock and Engineering and Pacific Western Submersibles. Yousseff smiled to himself and inhaled deeply. For a moment, he let himself feel safe.
21
Mahari could not believe his good fortune. A message, delivered tersely by telephone, directed him to get himself to a location in the busy market area of Peshawar. Before he knew it, he was in possession of a second DVD and, of course, a second Samsonite case. As soon as he had driven what he felt to be a safe distance back toward Rawalpindi, he pulled over and, with trembling fingers, flipped the locks and opened the case. Sure enough, it was crammed full of American dollars. All he had to do was go to the Al Jazeera station and create a news clip featuring excerpts from the DVD. Things were finally starting to go his way, he thought; he would make his career, and become fabulously wealthy in the process. He was living a dream — a fabulous, multicolored dream.
Within minutes of his entry into the Al Jazeera station, the message was being played around the world, with Mahari’s name and face attached. Most major news services interrupted regular programming to broadcast the clip.
We should collar that son of a bitch,” snorted Admiral Jackson. “Cut off his appendages one by one until he talks.” That became a serious point of discussion in the meetings with the President, the new SECDEF, and the others entrusted with the nation’s security. But, given the recent public relations disaster of the Haramosh Star, it was decided that the prudent course was to keep on the safe side of the law, whether it be international, Pakistani, or American.
Once again, every pixel and nuance of the new message from the Emir was analyzed by all the constituents of the US Intelligence Community. Reports were generated, and then further reports. Reports analyzing other reports, and reports synthesizing reports, spread like rabbits throughout the numerous agencies. The talking heads, the gurus of American cable television, debated it endlessly.