After contemplating the matter, Christine agreed. The dive would certainly be more interesting than waiting aboard Atlantis. Plus, how often would she get a chance to dive to almost ten thousand feet beneath the ocean’s surface?
“Great,” Humm said. “We’ll arrive at the specified location and be ready to dive shortly after sunset.”
43
PERSIAN GULF
A deep red glow was fading from the horizon as a helicopter beat a steady path east across the Persian Gulf. Beneath the Sikorsky MH-60R Seahawk, the vast expanse of black water was filled with intermittent white dots, marking the presence of merchant ships transiting the vital waterway. Inside the helicopter cabin, Jake Harrison sat beside Khalila Dufour as she stared out the side window, her eyes fixed on the gradually dwindling lights as the helicopter headed toward a dark patch in the ocean.
Three hours earlier, Khalila had emerged from her daylong meeting at the Al Hamra Tower. Harrison had decided to hang out nearby before returning to the safe house, grabbing lunch across the street, keeping an eye on the tower exit. It had taken all day, but Khalila finally exited the building, again walking beside Abdallah bin Laden, whom she bade farewell beside his awaiting limousine. Once again, she extended her hand and Abdallah shook it, although it seemed to Harrison that he let his touch linger, which was unusual given the general prohibition against men touching women in public in Kuwait and other Muslim countries. Men would shake hands with a woman only if she initiated the handshake; otherwise, the greeting between opposite sexes was hands-off.
Harrison wondered about Khalila’s personal life, about which he knew nothing. Was there something going on between Khalila and Abdallah? Abdallah seemed interested, and Khalila was a good match for the tall and influential bin Laden: beautiful, self-assured, and almost the same height as he was. It wouldn’t have been the first time a woman had used her looks to gain an advantage, and from a CIA officer perspective, there was no better group in the Middle East to weasel one’s way into than the bin Laden family.
The critical question, Harrison considered, was which side did Khalila truly work for? Did she sit in the meeting all day and simply absorb information, or had she provided data that Abdallah and his companions found interesting? Perhaps information on the potential survival of Abdallah’s father?
Harrison finally understood the issues the DDO must be dealing with regarding Khalila. Whose side was she truly on? Without knowing for sure, he couldn’t afford to cut her loose. She had excellent contacts in the Middle East, plus, with direct access to the bin Laden family, she was an incredibly potent asset.
A change to the beat of the helicopter’s rotors and the aircraft’s sudden descent announced their arrival at the transfer point. Harrison peered through the window, as did Khalila, searching the ocean for the silhouette of a submarine against the dark water, eventually spotting the hazy outline on the surface.
The Seahawk slowed to a hover fifty feet above the submarine, the downdraft from its blades sending circular ripples across the ocean surface. Two crewmen in the cabin helped Harrison and Khalila each don a harness. Khalila went first, attaching to a cable, accompanied by her duffle bag of personal items and clothes.
Khalila was lowered from the side of the helicopter, the metal cable paying out slowly, the duffle bag swaying in the downdraft as the helicopter crew aimed to land her in the submarine’s small Bridge cockpit atop the sail. The submarine’s Lookout grabbed the duffle bag as it swung by, then pulled hard on the lanyard, guiding Khalila into the Bridge. Harrison went next, joining Khalila and two officers, one of whom was the submarine’s Commanding Officer.
“Welcome aboard Michigan,” Captain Murray Wilson shouted over the roar of the helicopter rotor.
As the helicopter pulled up and veered back toward the coast, Wilson dropped down into the Bridge trunk and descended the ladder into the Control Room. Khalila and Harrison followed.
The submarine’s Control Room was rigged for black, illuminated only by the small indicating lights on the various panels. Wilson led the way around the Conn, where an officer was turning slowly on the periscope, into the submarine’s Battle Management Center, where his crew conducted Tomahawk mission planning and coordinated SEAL operations. The BMC was rigged for low-level light and transitioned to normal lighting once Wilson arrived with the two CIA officers.
Although Michigan was built as a ballistic missile submarine, it was a far different ship today from when it was launched in the last century. With the implementation of the Strategic Offensive Reductions Treaty, the Navy had converted the four oldest Ohio class submarines into guided missile and special warfare platforms. Twenty-two of Michigan’s twenty-four missile tubes had been outfitted with seven-pack Tomahawk launchers for a total of 154 missiles, with the remaining two tubes providing access to two Dry Deck Shelters attached to the submarine’s Missile Deck.
For this deployment, one shelter carried a SEAL Delivery Vehicle — a minisub used to transport Navy SEALs miles underwater for clandestine operations — while the other shelter contained two rigid-hull inflatable boats. Also aboard Michigan were two platoons of Navy SEALs, ready should their services be required, along with sixty tons of munitions stored in two of Michigan’s missile tubes: small arms, grenade launchers, limpet mines… anything a SEAL team might need.
The Battle Management Center was crammed with twenty-five tactical consoles, with twelve on starboard arranged in four rows facing aft. Mounted on the aft bulkhead was a sixty-inch display. Waiting in the BMC, in addition to several members of Michigan’s crew, were a dozen SEALs. Harrison was greeted by the men; he knew almost all of them since this had been his last unit before retiring only six months ago.
One man he didn’t know was the unit’s new commanding officer, replacing John McNeil, who had retired a month after Harrison.
Murray Wilson introduced Commander Jon Peters.
“I’m sorry to hear about McNeil,” Peters said. “We served together in Afghanistan. He was a good man.” He stepped closer. “If you catch the guy who did this, make it painful.”
The SEAL commander’s attention turned to Khalila, who had already received plenty of stares from the guys in the BMC. Introductions were exchanged, and everyone took a seat on the starboard side of the room, facing the display mounted on the wall.
As they waited for the operations brief to begin, Harrison felt the deck tilt downward as Michigan submerged, returning to the ocean depths. Lieutenant Tracey Noviello, the Officer-in-Charge of one of the two platoons, moved to the display.
Noviello kicked off the mission brief. “As you’re aware, we’ve been tasked with infiltrating a compound on Failaka Island. The mission is to gain access and determine who is being held in the facility. If one of the detainees is the target of interest, we’ll extract him. Jake Harrison or his partner will identify the high-value target if he’s there.”
Upon returning to the safe house after surveilling Khalila at the Al Hamra Tower, Harrison had been handed a communication from Langley. It was intentionally vague, instructing Harrison and Khalila to extract the man at the facility if he was the high-value target. If he was anyone else, they were to simply make note of his identity and return to Michigan. If the captive was, in fact, the HVT, Harrison was directed to take all possible measures to conceal his identity while aboard Michigan, and additional instructions would be provided regarding where to take him.