The Fourth War (14 page)

Whiteman Air Force Base
Missouri

At exactly five
A.M.
, Bradley entered the wing headquarters building dressed in a desert camouflage flight suit, black boots, and brown parka. The headquarters was empty and his boots echoed across the lobby's tile floor. It was his custom to arrive at work early; from five until seven was when he got most of his real work done.

He unlocked the glass doors and entered the command complex. His oak-lined office was just down the hall. Pushing back his door, he was surprised to see a man sitting in his chair, leaning back, his feet up, sucking on a thin brown cigar. As Bradley entered the room, the man left his feet propped up and smiled.

Bradley's heart skipped a beat, an instinctive reaction based on years of experience working with the CIA. He made his way to the leather couch while Washington remained in his chair. “How are you, Shane?” Washington asked.

“Good, Thomas, good. What are you doing here?”

“That isn't much of a greeting.”

“What were you hoping for?”

“A kiss. A hug. A ‘glad to see you, buddy!'”

“It's only been two days, Tom. That isn't long enough for my heart to grow fonder.”

Washington smiled. “No it isn't. Who would've guessed that we'd see each other so soon?”

Bradley nodded but didn't answer. He was not surprised. “Tom,” he asked, “how did you get in here?”

Washington didn't answer, but pulled the cigar from his mouth and pinched a piece of tobacco from his tongue. Bradley didn't press. He knew it was easy, one of the things Thomas really liked about his job, sleuthing and pretending he was working back out on the street. Bradley sat on the couch. “Okay, what are you doing here?”

Washington placed his briefcase on his lap and pulled out a copy of a classified report. He tapped the top page, then placed it on the desk. The classified document was printed on legal size paper. Neatly printed on the red cover, in bold and dark print, were the letters
TS-SBI-AL 1.
Top secret. Special background investigation required. Access limited by the White House.

The DDO sat back and rubbed the sides of his head. “We made firm contact with Donner,” he announced.

Bradley's mouth opened slightly. He glanced at the window and stared at the dark sky. He swallowed, then sat back and momentarily closed his eyes. “No kidding,” he muttered. It was the best he could do.

Washington nodded quietly.

“He's really back?”

“Would I lie?”

“Are you certain it's him?”

Washington's voice turned sour. “Would I make such a mistake?” Bradley shook his head and Washington went on. “He had a very interesting meeting with Peter.”

“Face to face?”

“Yeah.”

It took a moment for Washington to describe the meeting between Peter and Donner—the warheads, the dead soldiers, what Donner had required them do. Bradley listened, dumbfounded, his eyes staring wide. “I can't believe it!” he muttered when Washington was through.

“The gods have smiled on us briefly. Now we have to act.”

The colonel didn't move. He was completely lost in his thoughts. He pictured the gruesome scene, the dead soldiers, the warheads, warm and humming, the dark cave, Donner's voice. “Who is he!” he muttered in frustration to himself.

Washington couldn't understand him, but still read his mind. “Peter is going through some pictures, trying to identify him, but Donner was recently shaven, and so far he hasn't found a match. And anyway, it hardly matters, we've got
much
larger concerns.”

Bradley hunched his shoulders. A suspicion rose inside him, an uncomfortable gnawing at his chest. It didn't make any sense. It was completely unpredicted. Something was missing. He stared quietly, turning it over and over in his mind, examining every angle, looking for a distortion in the answer that had too easily appeared. Washington watched him, staying quiet, recognizing the look on his face, allowing him time to think, to sort it out in his mind. “Something's changed—something's missing. It just doesn't feel right,” Bradley said.

Washington nodded slowly. Inside he felt the same way. But it hardly mattered. Their path of action was clear.

“I don't think I will ever understand Donner,” Bradley finished. “Why has he helped us? Why is he willing to take such an enormous risk?”

Washington only grunted. That was only one of a thousand things about his work that he didn't understand. And now he no longer questioned, he just accepted what was. “Men do what they do,” he offered. “Like a mortician or a plumber. No one wants to drain the dead or stick their hands into someone else's toilet, but we're glad someone does it and we don't question why.”

Bradley shook his head. “No. That's not it. I swear, something's wrong here!”

Washington sighed. “Donner has offered to help us. I no longer care why. We've got a job now, a mission. And we don't have any time. We can speculate on Donner's motives after the warheads are destroyed.”

Whiteman Air Force Base
Missouri

Less than an hour after Thomas Washington showed up in Colonel Bradley's office, Bradley's senior officers congregated in the wing command center: Col. Dick “Tracy” Kier, his vice wing commander, Lt. Col. Jeremy Connell, commander of the 345th Squadron of B-2s, and Col. John J. Cominsky, his operations officer, all of them dressed in desert camouflage flight suits. The B-2 pilots represented the cream of the crop, and they carried themselves with a pride that bordered on arrogance.

The room was cool and quiet, with a stillness in the air that came from the deep darkness of the hour before dawn, and the officers were almost silent as they gathered in the room.

“There's coffee in the back,” Bradley said to his men. John J. and Connell stood up and went for the coffee. Col. Dick “Tracy” Kier, the vice wing commander, sat down at Shane's right, a dose of black brew in his stained squadron mug. He was a bear of a man, thick-necked and unyielding, with more hair on his shoulders than the top of his head. He sipped at the coffee, letting it warm his hands.

Shane and Tracy formed a very tight team, their friendship going back many years. Captain Kier had been Lieutenant Bradley's first flight commander at Holloman AFB when Bradley was first learning to fly the F-16. The two had become very close, as Dick Tracy, or “D. T.,” mentored the lieutenant through the many obstacles in the life of a young fighter pilot; beer, ego-driven officers, Operational Readiness Inspections, ugly women, sergeants and their secret codes, more beer, combat flying, pretty girls with ugly sisters, military regulations and rules, beer, local girls hungering for marriage, and office politics. After a particularly famous party that included black whiskey from Brazil and a game of strip poker in the O's club swimming pool, D. T. realized that his time for redemption had finally come. He quit the women and beer and concentrated on flying, becoming the best pilot in the wing, at least that's what he said. Soon after, on his twenty-ninth birthday, he met his future wife at an early morning mass, a beautiful and sincere Catholic girl he loved from the first time they met. Three months later they married, a formal military affair with ceremonial swords, mess uniforms, and a military band. Seven days after the wedding, Captain Kier and his young bride were transferred to Germany. Through the various moves that accompanied their careers, Kier and Bradley remained confidants and friends, getting together once a year for fly fishing in Idaho.

Now Colonel Kier was nearing the end of his military career. Six years older than Colonel Bradley, yet the junior officer now, D. T. fit comfortably in his role, being one of those rare men who was genuinely satisfied to watch his friend succeed. Having gone as far as he could, and with six kids at home (making up for his late start with a very strong finish of twins) he was anxious to retire from the air force and go to work for Delta, where the paychecks would better offset the cost of braces and basketball shoes. Colonel Bradley, on the other hand was just sprinting out of the gate, and D. T. considered it his responsibility to ensure that his friend made his first star while commanding the wing.

As he sat down next to Bradley he rubbed his eyes and said, “Kind of early for a staff meeting, isn't it boss?”

Colonel Bradley glanced at his watch. “Maybe for lazy men.”

D. T. faked a hurt look. “You cut me deep, man. Cut me to the heart. Could it be that you're jealous that I don't sleep alone?”

“Perhaps. How many kids did you have in your bed with you this morning?”

“I think two. Maybe three. Sometimes it's hard to tell. Doesn't matter, the overall effect is the same. I might as well be here as at home. I'll get more sleep in my office than I will in my bed.” D. T. smiled, then took a sip of his coffee and asked, “What's going on?”

“Hold on, D. T.,” Bradley answered. “I'll explain in a minute.”

D. T. shrugged and stood up to refill his coffee just as Thomas Washington burst into the room. D. T. stared at him. Clearly the CIA deputy director had worked through the night. His dark suit, badly wrinkled, matched the shadows under his eyes, and he smelled of sweat, mints, and coffee. He was wired and intense, with a fire in his eye, and he powered his way through the doorway with magnificent strides. Three other men followed, two deputies and a young aide carrying a large briefcase under each arm. Despite his appearance, Washington's power and energy charged the dull morning air. “Alright!” he bellowed. “Let's get down to work.”

Colonel Bradley stood up to greet Washington and the two men shook hands. “Thomas,” the colonel gestured to his officers. “These are my men. Gentlemen, this is Doctor Washington, Deputy Director of Operations, CIA.”

The introductions were short, just a name, rank, and duty title. Washington didn't introduce the other agents who had traveled with him but instead indicated for the men to sit down. He positioned himself at the head of the group and spread his huge arms on the table. His aide opened a briefcase and pulled out a set of bound papers.

“Let's get started. Time is of the essence, gentlemen, as you will see. But first, Colonels Cominsky and Connell, I need you to leave.”

The two men stared at the director, then over at their boss. Both looked angry. Lieutenant Colonel Connell raised a hand to protest but Washington cut him off. “Sorry, gentlemen, no offense intended, but what I am here to discuss is on a strictly need-to-know basis. You may be involved later on, but for now I would prefer to keep the lid on as tight as I can.”

The men remained still, waiting on Colonel Bradley. “Colonel Connell, you understand the ROE for Group 21?” Bradley asked.

Connell nodded and answered, “Yes sir, I do. Group 21 is the National Command Authority designation for special missions regarding the interdiction and destruction of weapons of mass destruction. Special units, designated Group 21, our B-2 wing included, have been tasked to train and be ready to strike potential targets at a moment's notice.”

“That's right,” Bradley answered. “And the conversation that follows regards a Group 21. As you know, access to such information is only on a need to know basis.”

Connell complained under his breath as he stood up from his chair. The two men walked from the room and pulled the door closed. Washington turned to Bradley, then motioned to introduce his men. “You know Manny Herrera?”

Bradley nodded slowly. “We've met a few years ago, before I was sent to Morocco.”

“Yes, that's right. You probably don't know this, but Herrera was your ghost for that mission. He never let you out of his sight. He knows how you work. He knows you inside and out.”

Bradley glanced at Herrera. Washington turned to D. T. and explained, “Manny Herrera is now Director, South Asia Division. Mr. Strausenberg is chief military liaison. And young Jeffery over there is my executive aide.” The men nodded as they were introduced.

Washington turned to Colonel Bradley and got straight to the point. “As I told you already, we have located the warheads. Under the direction of the President of the United States, you are going to launch a sortie and destroy them. You only have twelve hours to be in the air.”

“Where are they?” Bradley asked. D. T. looked perplexed.

Washington didn't notice D. T.'s questioning look. He reached back to his aide, who handed him a small map. “Northern Pakistan,” he answered Bradley's question. “Very near the Tajikistan border.”

“What's near the border?” D. T. interrupted. “What's going on!” He was not used to being left in the dark. Worse, he had taken an early dislike to Dr. Washington, didn't like his manner, didn't like the tone of his vice. “What is going on here? Did you say the
president
?”

Washington turned to him. “You are aware of the recent developments in Pakistan, I'm sure. But like everything else in that hole, the situation is even worse than it would appear. In this case much worse, as you are about to find out.”

It took Washington several minutes to explain what had occurred over the previous days, since the assassination of Massarif and his senior staff. D. T. listened carefully. Washington's facts were concise and complete, the narration chronologically exact. Every time, place, and event came off the top of his head, and D. T. had to concentrate to keep up with him.

By the time Washington had finished, D. T.'s face was pale. “Twenty-four nuclear weapons,” he stammered, “sitting unguarded in the side of a mountain!” He sat back, stunned, trying to take it all in. “You were saying that you know where the warheads are located?” he finally said.

“Yes,” Washington answered, turning his attention back to Colonel Bradley. “We will have the exact coordinates by late this afternoon. But we do know the warheads have been concealed in a cave in extreme northern Pakistan.”

“And the ROE for the mission?” Bradley asked.

“Rules of engagement dictate two aircraft, one as the lead, with a second as backup. Both aircraft will be loaded with weapons, but only one aircraft will drop. Number Two will stay with the formation through the entire mission to make certain we get a good jet over the target.

“You know, of course, that B-2s usually fly single ship?”

“Yes, I know that. But this mission is too important not to have a backup. We want to send two jets, just to make sure.”

Kier lifted a finger. “Have you considered a full-up air assault package? Navy attack birds, fighters escorts—the whole bit?”

Washington shook his head impatiently. “No. Can't do it. It's not an option now.”

Kier started to argue, but Washington cut him off. “There are several absolutely essential considerations to this mission,” he said. “First is secrecy. At this point, nothing is more important than that. It's a game of cat and mouse, and we don't want those guys to know we have located the cheese. Far better to show up in the middle of the night and destroy the warheads from the dark than to send up a combat package that lets them know where the warheads are. And if we put a multiservice attack package together, if we put AWACS and KC-10 refueling aircraft and fighter escorts in the air, everyone from Italy to India will know we are coming. Right now, al Qaeda is stumbling through the haystack, searching for the needle, but the instant we put combat assets over the target area, they will know where to look.

“Also, if we go with a full-up package, we would have to coordinate with half the UN. We'd have to get overflight clearances from Afghanistan and Pakistan, even Syria and Lebanon. Do you think that will happen? I don't think so. Maybe in a month or a week, but it wouldn't happen today. In addition, we'd have to advise our allies in the region; Iraq, the Saudis, Qatar, and Kuwait, and we have learned through sad experience that many of the Intel and military services of our allies are crawling with fundamentalist sympathizers and spies. Simply put, we couldn't guarantee security would not be breached.

“More, we don't need a full package. The B-2 is designed for exactly this kind of operation. It's got the range. Extremely accurate targeting systems. Impervious to enemy detection systems and radar. No need for fighter escorts, for it can't be seen.

“And it's the only aircraft that is capable of destroying deeply buried targets. A couple bombs dropped from an F-16? Come on, they would barely raise dust. Cruise missiles? Forget it. They wouldn't make a dent. Nothing else can ensure target destruction—not the navy, not ICBMs (and what a mess
that
would be!), and not U.S. fighters with their conventional bombs. So, yes, we've thought this out. And this is what we need to do.”

Kier nodded, satisfied, and Bradley went on. “The targeting information?” he asked.

“Weapons will be set for penetration detonation. No airburst. That is very, very important. Penetration detonation only.”

Bradley cocked his head in surprise. “Thomas, are you telling me—”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Washington waived impatiently at the air. “A B61-11 will be employed. It's our only choice. Donner has assured us the Pakistani weapons are buried behind a sufficient depth of granite that any other weapon would be useless. To assure destruction, we must employ the B61-11.”

Bradley's eyes widened. “But the B61-11!” he cried. “Are you certain, Thomas? Have you guys thought this thing through?”

“The decision was made by the president himself. He did not hesitate. If all goes according to the OPPLAN, there should be few casualties and minimal long-term impact on the area. And yes, the president understands completely what is at stake, but when you consider the alternative, what choice did he have? Wait until New York is destroyed or D.C. is a hole!”

The enormity of the decision brought instant sweat to Bradley's ribs. Clearly it was the only way to assure the destruction of the weapons, but still his head began pounding and his throat went bone dry. Yet, this was the moment, and he was prepared. He had seen the real world, he knew how it worked out there beyond the borders of the blue ocean and fine sky, beyond the coastline that defined the United States. Out there, the only thing that mattered was who had the biggest guns, who could shoot first, who tasted first blood. It wasn't nice, it wasn't clean, it was a bloody free-for-all, and the only way to survive was through power and fear.

So he would do what it took to see the warheads destroyed.

As Bradley thought, Strausenberg leaned forward, catching his attention and holding him with his eyes. His face, bony thin, was weary and tight. “This won't be a cakewalk,” he said. “Defensively, there are only minor considerations. The challenge will be to correctly and accurately identify the target. It has to be right. I mean down to the inch. Weapons on target and in the first pass. No aborts—there's no time. It has to be done perfectly and right away. There will be no excuses, no hesitation, and certainly no delays.” He paused a moment, then added, “Gentlemen, those are not my words. They come from the president. So I think you understand what I'm trying to say.”