route obviously is through the Suez Canal down the Red Sea and around Oman via the Arabian Sea, then into the Persian Gulf. Call it three thousand miles or so. But look at the choke points.” He ticked them off: “Suez, the entrance to the Gulf, and finally the Strait of Hormuz. The smugglers can read a map: they know that they could be intercepted anywhere along that route.
“Now, look at the other way Yes, it’s about four times longer to sail around the whole damn continent, but once past Gibraltar it’s wide open spaces with an enormous amount of room for maneuver. Until they hit the Oman coast, they’re practically home free. And even then, they don’t have to go all the way to Bandar Abbas. There’s two smaller ports on the Makran coast.” He traced the southern shore of Iran, in Baluchistan.
“Sounds like you’re betting on the longer route,” Wilmont said.
Leopole shook his head. “No, sir. We can’t afford to put all our eggs in either basket. We’re going to need two teams and hope that nothing goes wrong with either one. But my gut tells me the cake will take a slow boat to Iran. After all, there’s no big rush. Even if it takes six weeks, the Iranians have time to get ready.”
Derringer was scanning the map like a chess master examining the board, anticipating his next moves. “Where do we base our people to intercept either route?”
“Sir, I’m thinking Cairo for the Med with Morocco as an alternate. Down in the Gulf, probably Oman, assuming that can be arranged. Our liaison at State seems to think it’ll be no biggie.”
“Why not keep them at sea aboard the leased ships? They’d be more flexible that way, and a lot less likely to be spotted.”
Leopole knew where Derringer was coming from. The admiral’s experience included pre-positioning ships at Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean. “That’s certainly a possibility, sir. We’ll examine that as an option.” He looked at Carmichael, who took over again. The usual cheerleader enthusiasm was absent from her voice.
“Gentlemen, this mission will succeed or fail largely on the basis of intelligence. We have Dave Dare working on it already. Frankly, I have more confidence in him and his mysterious sources than I do State and DoD and CIA and NSA and the rest of the alphabet. But we’re establishing a cell within the working group to coordinate all information and provide it directly to our teams. There will be an absolute minimum of middle-level filter. If our teams want raw data, they’ll get raw data and draw their own conclusions.”
Joe Wolf, in charge of SSI domestic operations, sat in the back of the room. Without a direct hand in the operation, he was present as an observer but he had a thought. “Sandy, it seems that any Iranian nuke program is aimed at Israel sooner or later. What about their sources?”
Carmichael rolled her big blue eyes. “Joe, I think most of us who have ever worked with the Israelis have enormous respect for them, but we don’t trust them beyond arm’s reach. It’s a one-way street: we give them satellite imagery and all kinds of intel, not to mention a
“Now, in answer to your question: yes, we’ll gladly accept any information. But it’ll probably come via State, and that’s another filter that could just get in the way. So you see why we’re relying on our own sources as much as possible.”
“What about Alex Cohen? Isn’t he dialed in?”
Carmichael looked at Leopole. They exchanged knowing glances before the former Marine stood again. “Alex is a valuable asset. After all, he has dual citizenship and has served in the Israeli Army. I can say that he’s been working on this situation in the Middle East as well as Africa, and he’ll probably be on one of the teams. Other than that… we’ll see what develops.”
Derringer seldom got involved in operational details but SSI was planning for a rare naval operation and the salt water was stirring inside him. “We need SEAL expertise for this job.”
“Yes, and we’ve got it,” Leopole replied. “I expect that Vic Pope will lead the first team and Jeff Malten the second.”
“Are they inbound?”
“Ah, Admiral. I talked to Jeff today. He should be here tomorrow. We’re still trying to contact Vic. It’s awfully short notice.”
Derringer nodded slowly. “Very well. But who else? We’ll certainly need more than two men from the teams.”
Leopole raised a hand toward Matthew Finch. “Personnel is Matt’s domain.”
Finch raised partway from his seat. “Sir, we have three other SEALs in the files. I’ve talked to Dave La Rue and he’s interested. The other two are out of touch but my assistant is concentrating on getting hold of them today.”
Derringer shifted in his padded chair and looked at Wilmont. “Marsh, I’ve said for months now that we need more SEALs or Force Recon. There may not be enough time to teach some of our snake eaters how to debark from a Zodiac or take down a ship at sea.”
The chief operating officer cleared his throat. It was rare for Derringer to raise business matters in an operations meeting. “No argument, Mike. But this is the first maritime op we’ve had in, what? Must be a couple of years.”
Derringer rubbed his chin, staring at the map on the wall. “The thing that worries me, assuming we find the yellow cake, is leadership. Basically, it’s down to two men, and while I’m sure Malten’s a good man, he has no command experience. That means if we can’t get Pope, we’re in deep trouble.” He looked up at Wilmont again. “We need more depth in the organization.”
The COO gave an ironic grin. “All it takes is money. Think the board will kick loose some discretionary funds?”
“I’ll damn well find out.” Derringer looked back to Leopole. “Frank, is there any way we could tap some Brits on short notice?”
The foreign ops director looked surprised. “You mean former Special Boat Service?”
“Yes, Royal Marine Commandos.”
Leopole scratched his crew-cut head. “That’s a good idea, Admiral. I’ll huddle with Jeff right after this meeting and see what turns up.”
“Very well,” Derringer replied. “Let’s not waste any time, people. The clock is running.”
53
Sandy Carmichael poked her blond head into Leopole’s cubicle. “Like some coffee, Frank?” She winked at him.
As Leopole liked to say, he was smarter than the average Marine. He took the hint and said, “Sure, I’d love some.”
“I have a special blend in my office.” She walked down the hall, waited for her colleague, and closed the door behind him. When she reached for the coffeepot, Leopole raised a hand. “No thanks. I changed my mind.” He grinned.
Carmichael leaned on her desk. “Frank, according to the admiral, State says that we have the point on this job, and we probably do. But I just don’t believe that we’re the only team. I mean, if I were running a job this important, I sure wouldn’t rely on one shot. I’d have at least one more team on tap, maybe two. That means another PMC, which I doubt, or active-duty guys.”
“SEALs,” he replied.
“You betcha.” The south was back in her mouth.
“Well, I agree with you, Sandy. But I don’t see any point in stewing about it. After all, if we miss the boat — so to speak — we’ll be irrelevant. At that point I have to believe that somebody will move in.”
“But in any case we’re short of maritime operators. So tell me about Pope. I only met him once or twice and I’ve never dealt with him since I took the operations job.”
Leopold inhaled, thought a moment, and began. “Single, never married far as I know. Late thirties. Apparently he considered becoming a priest back home in Jacksonville but he went for the SEALs instead.”
