Mission Compromised (41 page)

When the Boeing
747
lifted off at 1800, Newman was seated on the aisle in business class, not as a Marine officer, but as Peter J. Newman, “Deputy Director of Security for Geological Exploration Operations, Anglo-American Petroleum.” The business cards he carried
had a phone number in Maryland that would ring in the Sit Room, where a watch officer would answer, “Anglo-American Petrol.” If there was a problem, the watch officer was instructed to call McDade. Newman was pretty sure that his cover story would work, but he was glad the elderly woman seated next to him was engrossed in an in-flight movie.

The flight landed in Paris at 0715 hours Wednesday morning, and Newman had to hurry between terminals at Charles de Gaulle to catch his Air France flight to Dubai. Remarkably, the flight took off on time and he settled in for another flight across four time zones. It was just after 1800 hours in the Emirates when Newman stepped off the Air Bus and headed toward the immigration and customs control kiosk. Because he had only his carry-on bag, his laptop computer, and the EncryptionLok-3, he breezed through the checkpoint and headed outside into the sweltering heat to get a taxi.

He spent an uneventful but restless night in the Intercon Hotel. From his room, he sent an EL-3 encrypted e-mail to Robertson back in Washington and Captain Joshua Weiskopf in Oman, giving the Air Force officer and the ISEG commander his location and anticipated arrival time in Muscat, Oman, the following day.

Newman arose early the following morning, did some calisthenics to loosen up his cramped muscles, and checked his e-mail again. He had a message from Dan Robertson in Washington, advising that the Global Hawk deployment was proceeding as planned; another from Coombs in Incirlik informing him that he and McDade had leased two large commercial hangars at the east end of the Incirlik Air Base to use as an advanced operating base; and a third from Joshua Weiskopf, telling Newman that when he arrived in Muscat he would be met by a British SAS captain, accompanied by Bruno Macklin. The two Brits
would be driving a Land Rover with the “Anglo-American Petroleum” logo painted on the side, Weiskopf said.

At 0900 Thursday morning, Newman checked out of the hotel and went to the airport for his Gulf Air flight to Muscat. This time, the flight didn't take off on time, and it was almost noon before the aircraft finally rolled down the runway for the one-hour flight to the capital of Oman, the strategically located sultanate perched between the Arabian Sea and the Persian Gulf and the unofficial guardian of the crucial Straits of Hormuz, through which pass nearly half of the world's oil.

 

It was almost 1600 by the time Newman and the Macklin brothers traversed the seventy-eight kilometers from the airport in Muscat to arrive at the front gate of the SAS compound. The base was situated on a desert plain with stark, sheer mountains to the north and west. The mountains made access from the outside almost impossible unless an infiltrator was willing to brave days of wearying, thirsty travel by foot. An aggressor would be discouraged on other approaches as well—first by an ordinary wire fence surrounding the place with numerous “no entry” and “no trespassing” signs in Arabic and English. And inside that fence was the real deterrent: a twelve-foot chain-link fence topped by coils of razor wire. Newman noted video cameras and sensing devices—infrared motion detectors, sound detectors, and alarms that would sound if someone tried to cut the fence links. As a final disincentive, the innermost fence was lighted and electrified with enough volts to kill anyone who touched it.

Newman nodded with approval at the security measures and handed his passport to the guard at the gate. Harry volunteered that Newman had an appointment with Colonel Kensington, the base commander. The vehicle was waved through, and the captain drove to the
main headquarters building. As he approached the building, Harry explained that this was where the main contingent of SAS men were housed. It was spartan—little more than plywood barracks—but it was still better than what Newman's ISETs were assigned to. Weiskopf had sent an encrypted e-mail when the ISEG had arrived, reporting that his thirty-eight men were billeted in three hardback tents, large canvas enclosures that provided shade but little else. They were sauna-hot during the day and nearly freezing at night, Weiskopf said.

The British captain led Newman inside the building. It, too, was austere. The building was air-conditioned, but for the sake of the communications equipment, not the personnel. Newman could hear a diesel-powered generator humming somewhere in the distance.

Colonel Richard Kensington was prompt for the meeting, something that immediately endeared him to Newman.

“I understand you're trying to break the British record,” the Colonel said, smiling.

“British record?” Newman asked.

“Yes … you know … those chaps back around 1880 who went around the world in eighty days, don't you know. Seems you want to do it in thirty hours.”

“Well, I didn't quite make it. I think I've spent at least that much time in the air, but I've still got a trip to … to the north of here.”

“Yes … well, I know your time is brief, so let's get right to it, shall we?” The colonel handed Newman a glass of ice water. “You chaps would rather have tea, I would guess, but in Her Majesty's service, we consider putting ice in good tea to be a sacrilege.”

Newman smiled. “Thank you.”

“I'll give you the tuppence tour.” Kensington stood and walked toward a large map on the opposite wall. “As you can see, this is one
of seven SAS bases here in Oman,” the colonel said, using a pointer on the topographic map. “This particular installation was built during World War II for parachute training and desert maneuver exercises. This is the main base, really,” he said. Then he pointed to an unpopulated area of the desert in the shadow of the mountains. “This is your team's base. We weren't able to offer them much in the way of hospitality, I'm afraid. Just three big tents.” Newman shrugged and nodded.

“The tents aren't fancy. And they don't have toilets or running water. We keep mosquito netting over the cots in the tents,” Kensington continued. “We have to be careful here about contracting malaria. We also gave your men a kerosene stove—it gets rather beastly chilly at night in these parts.”

The colonel walked back to the small conference table across the room and handed Newman an envelope full of loose papers. “You'll find in here some additional documentation to support your cover. There are some real geological survey reports in there along with some meaningless drivel about personnel problems, missing equipment, and the like—all very authentic, I'm told by the intelligence chaps. It is of course the same kind of material that we gave to your Captain Weiskopf and his boys. By the way, my complements, Colonel Newman, on the quality of the men you have selected to do whatever it is you have to do. Your man Weiskopf seems to be tip-top.”

Newman could tell that the British officer was digging for information on their mission. A knock on the door spared him the difficulty of telling the British colonel that he simply wasn't cleared to know what the ISEG was doing and where they would be doing it.

The knock was followed by the voice of the camp's sergeant major. “Captain Weiskopf, sir.” The deeply tanned and bearded Delta Force
officer entered. Weiskopf was wearing a foreign desert camouflage uniform and his side arm.

Weiskopf saluted the British colonel. “Colonel Kensington, good day, sir. Lieutenant Colonel Newman, welcome to the best amusement park in the British Empire. I've commandeered a vehicle, and I can take you to our camp whenever you're ready.”

“Well, I think we're done here, Lieutenant Colonel Newman,” said Kensington. “Let me know if you need anything. When you're ready to move your boys down to Muscat for the trip out of here, just give Sergeant Major Wilcox a few hours to round up some lorries.” Kensington stood and extended his hand.

The two Americans walked out to a canvas-topped Land Rover. Newman tossed his carry-on and computer bag into the backseat. As they got underway, Newman briefed Weiskopf on the change of mission and his meeting with the other team leaders.

“How far away is your camp?” Newman asked. There was no sign of any tents as far as his eye could see.

“About thirty klicks northwest. So I hope your kidneys are in good shape, 'cause they're about to take a beating.”

“Well, I've already seen the downside … tell me the good points of this place.”

“It's quiet. And almost always sunny. No bad neighbors—in fact, no neighbors at all.”

Newman's stomach reminded him he hadn't eaten in fifteen hours. “How's the food?”

“Food's OK … we've got our own mess tent. The SAS gave us a couple of their regular Army cooks and the food isn't half bad—if you like canned meat of indistinguishable origin and canned vegetables of uncertain pedigree. The cooks aren't all that experienced, but they can't
go wrong just opening a can or a freeze-dried packet. They have the usual powdered eggs, milk, and something they claim is ice cream. The cook says, ‘These eggs are just like your mother used to make,' but Sergeant Major Gabbard says, ‘Yeah—if your mama was a sadist!'

Both men laughed. Newman said, “We had a cook like that at Camp Lejeune.”

“If it's GI food, it's either canned, packaged, or imaginary,” Weiskopf said. “The only fresh food is the bread. Every day some guy brings in a loaf of bread for each of us. The cooks pick 'em up when they go back to the base for supplies. I'm guessing that some local who's on the tab of the Iranians or the PFLO is bringing it in. I think that he reports every day to his handler how many people are in the camp, based on the number of loaves he delivers here.”

“I saw quite a few civilians back there at the headquarters area. What's their story?”

“Well, in typical British fashion, the base is totally supported by local ‘businessmen' who contract with Her Majesty's armed forces to do everything—haul away the trash, provide motor oil for their small fleet of four-by-fours, Land Rovers, and motorized mountain bikes—all painted with camouflage like this one. These civilians also work on the generators, pump out the latrines, and things like that. The only place that they can't roam is our end of the base. I guess the SAS is kind of sensitive about people finding out that Americans are being billeted and trained here. Oh, and they don't allow civilians near the planes at the RAF air base on the other side of the mountains out in the desert, south of Ibri. They've got British AV-8 Harrier jump jets and some helos over there, and the C-130 that we use for our HA-HO jumps. They've got a whole company of Marines from the 40 Commando guarding the place.

“Since they keep us segregated from the main base, we don't get involved with the guys at the garrison. Sometimes the locals invite the Brits to a little party—they call ‘em
haflas.
Not all that great by our standards, until you've gone awhile without fresh meat—then you're drooling. So we twist these guys' arms and ask them to bring us back some roasted lamb, goat, camel—or whatever it is. On occasion, they'll bring us back some roasted meat over some rice. Sure beats the stuff the Army cooks bring on,” Weiskopf said.

“Speaking of goat meat,” Newman interjected, “have you guys had any of the local goat sausage? I hear it comes highly recommended.”

“Are you kidding? Colonel … do you know how it's made?”

Newman shook his head. Weiskopf told him. “Well, they don't have a grinder to grind the meat, so the older women cut up the raw meat in chunks. Then they chew it up the best they can with their mostly toothless gums until it's nice and tender. Then they squeeze it into goat gut and tie off each link of sausage with a hair that they pluck from their own heads.”

“Stop … you're making me hungry.”

They drove another several kilometers. “Is it always blowing sand like this?” Newman asked. “Man, it must get real hazy sometimes.”

“It's mostly like that during the day. By night, the wind goes away and the sky becomes brilliantly clear. This far away from the lights of the base, we get some terrific celestial viewing. And it's been good for navigational training.”

“How's that going?”

“Excellent. In addition to parachute and navigational, we've spent a lot of time on the ranges. They've got things set up so we can test-fire all our weapons. The guys really wanted that 'cause they didn't have
time for much of that at Fort Bragg. We've also been working the bugs out of setting up the new, enhanced Laser Target Designators.”

“Good … that's going to be critical for the mission. Well, it sounds like you've got things under control.”

“How was your trip from the land of the free and the home of the brave?”

“Not bad, just long. I started in D.C., went to Nellis to see the UAV we're going to use for this mission, then back to Dulles, on to Paris, Dubai, and now here. Any complications in getting your ISEG in?”

Weiskopf told him that all thirty-eight team members came in from different places, in twos and threes, on different flights. Some came through London to Nairobi and direct to Muscat. Others came in from Amman, Jordan, and into Abu Dhabi. One team came in via Frankfurt to Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, and then to Muscat. One three-man team flew into Dubai from Instanbul and drove overland to Muscat on the coast road.

Before they left Bragg, the SAS had secured paper to support their cover as part of a BP geological exploration team. So far, no locals had questioned the cover, Weiskopf said.

“Everyone but you has either a Dutch, Irish or British passport plus the usual pocket litter—business cards, photo-ID badges, and other ‘proof' that we are who we said we are. If somebody ever asks us about geology or oil exploration, the boys have been briefed to bluff and tell 'em that we were sent in to look for some lost equipment left by a previous expedition. If they wonder about us, we give 'em business cards and ID. Then they call ‘our' phone number to check us out … and if everything goes the way Captain Coombs and Lieutenant McDade planned it … somebody in London or the White House answers the phone, ‘Hello, British Petrol. …'