The Defense Secretary frowned. “Why not?”
“Our best estimates are that North Korea doesn’t have more than five to seven nuclear devices in all. That’s not much of an arsenal. Simple math. Seven bombs take away one leaves six. Seven take away two leaves five. The leadership in Pyongyang will want to see how it goes before giving away almost thirty percent of their entire nuclear capability.”
“They may not be giving them away, you know,” Clayton said. “North Korea is desperate for money. For all we know, they just sold their whole arsenal.”
“Maybe,” Marlowe conceded. “But a conservative involvement seems more likely, given North Korea’s dealings with foreigners in the past. Remember, we’re dealing with an insular, isolationist regime, one that doesn’t trust any outsiders, no matter what their politics might be.”
“I thought this had all been ironed out with North Korea.” Schellenberg put in. “After the confrontation with them a couple of years ago over their nuclear program, we promised to give them a new, safer nuclear reactor in exchange for certain guarantees—”
“And why is it, Mr. Secretary,” Caldwell said softly, “that you people in State always assume that other nations in the world are going to play the game by our rules?”
“In any case,” Marlowe added, “we don’t have enough information yet. This could be the work of a small clique in their military, rather than a policy decision by Pyongyang.”
“None of this gets us anywhere, does it?” Hemminger pointed out. “It all comes down to a question of whether or not we’re going to pay the price this guy demands.”
“The United States does not accede to blackmail,” Caldwell said flatly.
“Come off it, Amos,” Buchalter said. “We’re not talking about a few hostages here. We’re talking about a single bomb that, at the very least, will do unimaginable damage to the economies of half a dozen of our allies, and could, possibly, through radioactive contamination kill tens of thousands of people. You know as well as I do that we’ll negotiate if we have to, if the alternative is—”
“Pay the blackmailer and you’ll never be rid of him,” Marlowe stated softly. “Worse, you’ll have a dozen more like him knocking at your door the next day.”
“What alternative do we have?” the British ambassador asked. “As with you, Her Majesty’s Government has a standing policy of never negotiating with terrorists. This time, however, we may have no choice. The risks, to our economy, to our people, are simply too great.”
Buchalter turned to face Bainbridge. “Admiral. Your thoughts on the matter?”
Bainbridge shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He knew why he’d been called here, and he knew what he was expected to say. Still, he was not entirely comfortable with his role.
“As per orders,” he said slowly, “we have positioned a SEAL platoon — that’s two officers and twelve men — in England, with orders to stand by. It, ah, happened that some of these men were already training with your SAS, Sir George. We merely had to send a second detachment with their equipment.”
“I’ve heard about your SEALs,” the ambassador said. “Impressive.”
“SEALs,” Clayton said thoughtfully. “Could they pull off some sort of mission? Maybe go in and disarm that bomb?”
“We are looking into alternatives,” Bainbridge said, a bit stiffly. “My staff in Norfolk is working on several options, including an assault.” He spread his hands. “I should caution you not to put too much hope into that possibility, however. Fourteen men, however well trained, are not much of an army in a situation like this. Our intelligence is woefully inadequate. We have no idea where the bomb is being kept, or how many terrorists are there, how they are armed, how they are positioned. Assaulting them blindly would be insane.”
“An open invitation to Adler to push the button,” Schellenberg agreed.
“Then why did you pre-position the SEAL platoon?” Buchalter asked.
“To give us some leverage,” Bainbridge replied. “And in case NAVSPECWAR can provide the necessary intelligence. I had in mind the possibility of using a minisub, one of our SEAL delivery vehicles, to carry out a covert reconnaissance of the situation.”
“That makes sense,” Buchalter said. “I want you to write me up a plan. Tell me what you need. You’ll get it.”
“Thank you, sir.”
In fact, Bainbridge was more uncomfortable than ever with the idea. Though he commanded the Navy’s East Coast Special Warfare Group, he’d never entirely believed in the concept of special warfare… and that meant the SEALs. Oh, they had performed splendidly in the past, certainly. SEAL Seven’s recent rescue of hostages, including an American congresswoman, from a terrorist stronghold in what had once been Yugoslavia had been a classic.
But the Navy SEALs, he knew, were unpredictable, and damned near uncontrollable. Like many in the senior levels of the U.S. military, Bainbridge did not trust Special Warfare forces. This situation in the North Sea was one place where gun-toting cowboys could not be allowed to interfere.
Not even if the only alternative was surrender.
16
“The boys seem to be hitting it off pretty well,” Colonel Wentworth said.
Murdock tossed off the last of his gin and nodded. Another roar of approval sounded in unison from the two groups of men — SEALs and SAS troopers — who’d taken over the pub a few hours before by the simple expedient of being louder and more obnoxious than anyone else in the establishment.
“They make noise together all right, Colonel,” Murdock said.
Chucking everybody else in the place out was a strange way to preserve operational security, he thought, but it was just as well that most of the civilians had long since taken their business elsewhere. None of the men were in uniform, but even in civvies, the British and American elite troops stood out alike in their hard-muscled fitness and swaggering banter. They looked military, and Murdock was more aware than ever that that could mean trouble.
When he’d first taken command of SEAL Team Seven, Murdock had made a point of making the men adhere to the Navy dress codes… and more. No mustaches that could break the seal on a face mask. Short hair. Discipline, and the uniformity of appearance that helped build good unit morale.
Over the past few months he’d changed his mind, though. As a vital part of the U.S. military’s intelligence gathering network, Navy SEALs had to be able to blend in with the population at large. There’d been a particularly nasty terrorist incident in the early eighties, when three Navy divers on a hijacked passenger plane had been singled out by their terrorist captors despite their civilian clothes, beaten, and finally murdered. The word was they’d been picked out from the other passengers by their athletic builds, clean-cut looks, and whitewalls — the close-shorn hair that left them nearly bald on the sides of their heads.
That, Murdock had declared, was not going to happen to his boys, and as the men liked to say among themselves, the Old Man had loosened up considerably since taking command of SEAL Seven’s Third Platoon. Roselli and Fernandez both sported black mustaches now, and all of the men had hair a bit longer than Navy regs normally allowed.
Besides, as he watched the men, it was clear they didn’t lack for unit morale.