American operator, p.30
American Operator, page 30
part #4 of Tier One Series
“That all makes sense, but how does this relate to Turkey?” Latif asked.
“Turkey is a NATO member,” Allen said, jumping in, “and is the member with the largest standing military force on the continent, over six hundred thousand personnel, and second only to the US in NATO. Turkey geographically and symbolically functions as the gateway to Europe. Its strategic importance to the stability, credibility, and functional effectiveness of NATO is enormous.”
“Which is why we need to view the recent PKK attack on Incirlik with a different lens,” Adamo chimed in. It was as if Adamo and Allen had prepared the brief together; that’s how well they were playing off each other. “The media is calling it a failed terrorist attack to obtain the B61 tactical nukes, and the Russian propaganda machine is promoting this perception. But the attack wasn’t a failure. On the contrary, it was a resounding success—perfectly achieving its architect’s objective.”
“Which is?” Dempsey asked.
“To create panic in the public about terrorists trying to steal nukes in Turkey and then turn it into an international crisis that drives a wedge between Turkey and the US. From the beginning, the attack on the airbase was a suicide mission. Heck, I personally believe the PKK fighters knew this going in. The simple exercise of planning the op would quickly reveal it was mission impossible.”
“Then why do it?” Martin asked. “Why martyr yourself for Russia?”
“First, I’m not convinced they knew they were working as Russian proxies,” Adamo said. “But even if they did, a shrewd commander would see the brilliance of the plan. Pretend for a moment that you’re a senior-level tactician in PKK and your objective is regime change in Turkey. But instead of weakening the Erodan regime, all your previous campaigns have had the opposite effect—only further concentrating his power. Then someone comes to you and explains that you’re approaching the problem from the wrong angle. That the only power strong enough to oust Erodan is the United States and NATO. And this person goes on to cite examples like Saddam Hussein in Iraq and Kaddafi in Libya, and he tells you that the only way to get rid of Erodan is to paint him as a mad dictator with potential access to ninety B61 tactical nuclear weapons. In that case, the world will demand one of two things happen: either the nuclear weapons are removed, or the dictator is removed. Erodan will never willingly part with his nuclear deterrent, and so . . . There you have it.”
“Then you reveal the presence of an unauthorized CIA base to stoke the fires of mistrust and paranoia in Erodan’s mind. Make him think that his ally has been lying to him, that the US can no longer be trusted,” Allen said. “Make him contemplate evicting the United States military and intelligence presence from Turkish soil.”
“And then the nukes become an international crisis,” Adamo said, finishing the thought.
Dempsey looked back and forth between Adamo on the screen and Allen sitting next to him. They were smiling at each other, and despite himself, he couldn’t help but be impressed. Sure, this complicated Turkish destabilization plot, orchestrated by the Russians and using Kurdish proxies manipulated by an evergreen legend they’d developed, could be 100 percent wrong, but he didn’t think so. These two spooks made quite a formidable analytical pair. He shifted his gaze to Grimes.
Sorta like she and I are on the tactical side of the house.
“So I suppose that only leaves one question unanswered,” Munn said, turning to Allen. “Why did the PKK terrorists take you? What nugget of information did you possess that Malik and the Russians wanted to exploit?”
“I have no idea, and believe me, I’ve been asking myself that question. I just assumed it was because they pierced my official cover and knew I was collecting intelligence in country,” she said.
“Were you looking into Malik?” Smith asked.
“No.”
“Russian operations in Turkey?”
“Not specifically, no.”
“What about PKK? Were you actively penetrating their network or maybe getting close to uncovering this plot so that the Russians decided they needed to get you out of the picture before you could sound the alarm bell?” Smith continued.
She shook her head. “I was certainly aware of PKK and, like I said before, interested in Erodan’s fixation on the Kurdish situation in general. But I wasn’t running an infiltration or deep-cover asset.”
“Sometimes the answers to questions like that are not as satisfying as we might wish them to be,” Baldwin mused. “In this case, the Ambassador was the target. The objective was to commence the destabilization process by escalating tensions between the US and Turkey. Were Bailey still in play during this crisis, he’d be functioning as a stabilizing force, working to bolster trust and confidence between Washington and Ankara. Taking Bailey out of the picture beforehand was most likely a calculated move.”
“And me? What about me? Why didn’t they shoot me on the street that day?” Allen said.
“There could be several reasons,” Baldwin replied gently, as if he were explaining a calculus problem to his favorite but slow child. “One thing I’ve learned over the years is that all villains are, if nothing else, opportunists at heart. We may never know the true reason for your abduction, and if I may be so bold, I think that sometimes not knowing can be a blessing in disguise.”
“And just how the hell am I supposed to live with that?” she asked, her eyes suddenly rimming with tears. “. . . the not knowing.”
After a long silence, Grimes said softly, “One day at a time, Amanda. Believe me, that’s the only way.”
Everyone at the table looked at their hands. Dempsey felt an urge to wrap an arm around the woman beside him but resisted.
Adamo broke the silence a beat later.
“My present concern is that this Russian operation to drive an irreconcilable wedge between Turkey and the US is not finished. Right now, as we speak, President Warner, the Secretary of State, and the DNI are flying to Istanbul to convince President Erodan just how important the relationship between the US and Turkey is. Does anyone here care to guess the total number of times sitting US Presidents have visited Turkey over the past fifty years? Five . . . five times in five decades, and President Warner is going now. So if there is any doubt in anyone’s mind as to where we stand—this, ladies and gentlemen, is a full-blown international crisis.”
“If I were Malik, or whoever the sonuvabitch is behind this op, this is the moment I’d be waiting for,” Dempsey said, garnering looks from everyone in the room. “You’ve got the President, the Secretary of State, the DNI, and their Turkish counterparts all about to meet in the same place at the same time. If chaos, mistrust, and blame is the endgame, why not lob a grenade into the middle of this party and see what happens?”
“This was my thinking exactly. Which is why I put together this OPORD for Director Smith and called this all-hands-on-deck meeting,” Adamo said with a nod to Dempsey. Then he turned to Smith and handed him a binder, which the Ember Director opened and began to page through.
“I need some time to review the details, but this operation is approved,” Smith said, his eyes still scanning the document Adamo had prepared. Then, looking up, he fixed his gaze on Dempsey. “Time to get some rack, people. Wheels up in five hours. We’ll brief you on the details en route. For right now, all you need to know is that Ember Special Activities Division is going to Istanbul.”
“To do what exactly?” Munn asked.
“I guess we’ll know when it unfolds,” Dempsey said, looking over at Grimes.
“Not to worry, JD. After all, what could possibly go wrong?” she said and then flashed him the world’s most sarcastic smile.
CHAPTER 40
US Navy C-2 from VRC-30 / Carrier Air Wing Five
Call Sign Provider Two
Over the Sea of Marmara
Forty Miles South of Istanbul, Turkey
May 10
0630 Local Time
Dempsey hated not being able to see out of the ancient rattling turboprop that served as the workhorse transport for the Navy. Other than the cockpit windows, there was only a single tiny porthole on each side of the fuselage, and he wasn’t near either of them. He shifted right on the canvas bench as the C-2 slowed, and the engines seemed to groan in protest. He hated old planes almost as much as helicopters . . .
“This plane is a piece of shit,” Martin complained, apparently reading Dempsey’s mind. “It’s uncomfortable, it shakes like hell, and it stinks like pig ass.”
“It stinks because of your pig ass, Martin,” Munn growled. “What did you eat in the Goat Locker before we left?”
“Scrambled eggs with cheese and Tabasco,” the former Marine said, grinning with pride.
Everyone groaned, even Dempsey.
Then the plane flared, nose rising on the approach, and dropped hard onto the runway.
“Damn Navy pilots,” Latif grumbled. “Atatürk International has a two-mile runway. Why does every Navy landing have to be a controlled crash?”
“Well,” Munn said, unbuckling himself and standing as they taxied, “you know what the Naval aviators say about landing on a runway: ‘Flare to land—squat to pee.’”
Grimes punched Munn in the back. “I squat to pee—you wanna take me on in a gunfight?”
Munn laughed and raised both hands in surrender. “It’s all about risk management, and no, ma’am, I most certainly do not.”
Dempsey chuckled at the locker-room banter while he unhooked the belt at his waist and stood as the old plane rattled off the runway. It was good to be back with the team. They gave him purpose. And drive. Ember was becoming a brotherhood to him, more so with each passing day. He couldn’t imagine operating without them, and that’s when his mind drifted to his last interaction with Smith. Hours removed from the heat of the conversation, he was better able to view the operation through an unfiltered lens. Why had he tried to be a lone wolf? Why had he thought he could rescue Amanda Allen alone? That wasn’t him. That had never been him. He was a team guy. John Dempsey was a team guy, now and forever.
The plane seemed to taxi forever, with Dempsey hanging on to a piece of orange cargo netting like a subway commuter. When the old plane finally jerked to a stop, a flight suit–clad crewman maneuvered between them to get to the back of the plane, and a beat later, the rear cargo ramp lowered to the ground. Beyond, he could see two black SUVs sitting on the cement ramp that reflected light from the flight line. The tarmac was wet, and he could smell rain in the air.
Dempsey slung his kit, his pack, and his assault rifle over his shoulder and checked the pistol in the drop holster on his right thigh. Then he followed Grimes out the back of the idling C-2A Greyhound. As he passed the young crewman, the kid said, “Thanks for flying with Provider Airlines. We know you have no fucking choice when you fly Navy, so thanks for riding VRC-30. Come again. Buh-bye, now . . . Buh-bye.”
Dempsey chuckled at the kid’s shtick and followed Grimes down the ramp and over to the waiting vehicles. Two men approached them, one from each SUV. The operator from the lead vehicle was a few years older than Dempsey and dressed in cargo pants, a plaid short-sleeve shirt, and a Punisher ball cap.
The man extended his hand. “Hey, I’m Ponch, and this is Tab. We’re GRS sent to give you a lift and provide some security for y’all.” He looked over the five-member Ember team, all carrying kits and rifles. “But I guess we’ll just provide the taxi service. From the looks of it, y’all got the security component taken care of.”
Dempsey shook Ponch’s hand. “Thanks for the help, bro.”
“Yeah, well, the boss said y’all are part of the team that gave our boys a helping hand and lift outta Adana, so we owe you. Y’all are Ground Branch or something?”
“Something,” Dempsey said.
“Check,” the man said with a grin. “I used to be part of ‘something,’ too. I’m Army, and Tab over there was a frogman.”
Dempsey glanced at Tab and was relieved that the former SEAL didn’t look familiar. He extended his hand, and Tab shook it with an iron grip.
“So,” Ponch said, gesturing to the two SUVs at the same time, one with each hand, “we’ll split into two vehicles. I understand we have a drop-off for one of y’all inside the grounds of the Sarachane Municipal Palace.” His gaze went to the sniper case slung over Grimes’s shoulder. “I’m guessing that someone is you?”
She tipped her chin at this.
“Okay, just so we’re clear, Gendarmerie will be escorting you into position on the roof, not American Secret Service,” the contract CIA security agent said, referring to the paramilitary branch of the Turkish Armed Forces responsible for counterterrorism and counterinsurgency operations. “You’re the only person with permission to be on the roof . . . And don’t be surprised if they give you a hard time, ma’am. Them Gendarmerie boys can be a little sexist. Not everyone is as evolved as Tab and me.” He flashed her a big frat-boy grin and winked.
Grimes smiled coolly. “I’ll be fine.”
Ponch tipped his ball cap at her, then pulled a tablet computer out of his right cargo pocket and opened a map application that he showed Dempsey and Munn. “We’ll set up our vehicles here at the corner of Sarachane Park access road . . .” He tapped a corner north and a hundred yards east of the long entrance to the Palace—which looked more office building than palace to Dempsey. “. . . and then here at the corner of Bukali Dede Sokak, the road behind the property to the east. This here”—he tapped on a square white building just past the corner—“is a driving school, so I’ll sit us in the corner of their lot right at the intersection the Palace faces.”
“I’m not loving that first spot,” Munn said, looking at the map and frowning. “I don’t want to get blocked in.”
“We won’t, at least not by vehicles. The Secret Service and the Gendarmerie will have the road closed several minutes ahead of the arrival, and we coordinated everything with the Turks, so we’ll be right at the street at both locations. But so you know, there’s gonna be a crowd. Civilian protesters have been mobbing the entrance to the IBB—the Palace—pretty much every day since the attacks. Half of ’em want the West out of Turkey ’cause I guess it’s our fault they’ve been killing each other for over four thousand years. The rest are either protesting those protesters, or the Erodan dictatorship, or the right for a Kurdish independent state, or the Westernization of Islam, or maybe the new pomegranate-spice latte at Starbucks . . . The list is long and varied—kinda hard to keep track these days.”
“Secret Service knows where we’ll be, I assume,” Dempsey said, ignoring the rant.
Ponch laughed. “Yeah, they know where you’ll be, but they don’t know who you are, and that has them pretty pissed off. They made it clear that you are not augmenting security and that they have no idea why you are here. I guess the order came from high up ’cause they didn’t fight my brief, but they sure as hell don’t like it. You cool with everything? Got any questions for me or Tab?”
Dempsey nodded. “It’s all good. Thanks for the legwork.”
“Yeah, man,” the GRS operator said. “And we’re two more guns for whatever ‘not a security augment’ tasking you got going on.”
“We appreciate that,” Dempsey said as they walked toward the vehicles. “Stay frosty, ’cause the way things have been going lately for us, we might very well need you.”
CHAPTER 41
Vehicle Number Three
Presidential Convoy
Istanbul, Turkey
0830 Local Time
Jarvis looked out the thick ballistic glass at the metropolis that was Istanbul as the caravan made its way onto the E-5 Yolu highway. The route would loop them north around the airport and then bend east toward the historic Fatih district—the ancient city once known as Constantinople, long since swallowed by sprawl. Istanbul today was as vibrant and Western as any city in Europe, thanks largely to the policies and vision of Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, founder of the Turkish Republic and the country’s first “secular” President. Once a people became secularized and accustomed to the freedoms, luxuries, and conveniences of the West, it was nearly impossible to turn back the clock, but in Turkey, Erodan was trying.
And unfortunately, he was succeeding.
“You’re annoyed,” Petra said.
He looked up at Petra, who sat across from him in the limo beside the single American Secret Service agent assigned to their vehicle.
“Yes,” he said. “Having President Erodan riding with President Warner at the last minute just makes things more frustrating.”
“Amen, sir,” the Secret Service agent agreed, his six-foot-four frame hunched slightly in the seat. “Imagine how we feel.”
“Be honest,” Petra said, bemused. “What you’re really frustrated about is that they’re having a conversation and you can’t hear what they’re talking about. Don’t worry, Warner won’t give away the proverbial farm without you. He knows what he’s doing.”
“I know he does, but even the best of us need backup. He needs a wingman, someone to listen for subtext, watch body language, look for tells of insincerity or downright lies—I could be doing that for him right now.”
