Intercept (14 page)

Out there this morning, in a cold but glorious landscape, just a few miles from the scene of some of the most formidable fighting of the Civil War, each member of the foursome struggled with his game, the way ultra-busy men do after weeks with scarcely any practice.

And when Ambassador Peacock, Jimmy’s father-in-law, three-putted the sixteenth green from seven feet, the pure humiliating nature of the royal and ancient game sprung into sharp perspective. Jimmy changed the subject and talked about work, and the long hours he seemed always to put in, which, incidentally, had prevented him from becoming the natural successor to Greg Norman.

When the round was completed, Al and the ambassador had won fifty bucks apiece from Jimmy and Bob, who shared a ride back to Washington
in defeat. On the way they talked not of golf, but of a game involving much higher stakes.

“I hear they landed in Karachi,” said Jimmy.

“Sure did. But God knows where they’re going. Our guys followed them to a train headed north up to Lahore. It’s the Karakorum Express, and it takes darn nearly eighteen hours to get there. Arrives in Lahore tomorrow morning, their time. From there on, we don’t know.”

“Our guys on the train?”

“Uh-huh. Four of them.”

“You still agree we need to eliminate them?”

“Of course. Because we all know they will seek revenge for those five years of incarceration and the torture they think they suffered.”

“Bobby, you know what I think we should do? I think we should arrange a private meeting with a senior Navy SEAL commander and get his input. He might not have anyone who could pull this off right now. But I bet he knows someone who might.”

“You sure we haven’t done enough betting for one day?”

“Almost. But you know what these bastards are capable of. And I just don’t want ’em on the loose for much longer. In those court papers there were about four U.S. army guards who swore to God those fanatics were taking vows to get out and start killing Americans. We need to stop them. And we can’t recruit the Mossad to do it for us.”

“I know, I know,” said Bob. “It’s just that the whole darn thing is so goddamned illegal.”

“Then we better look bloody sharp about it,” replied Jimmy. “Before some interfering bastard finds out what we’re up to.”

 

THE RETIRED HEAD OF
SPECWARCOM in Coronado, Admiral John Bergstrom, was mildly surprised to receive a summons to the National Security Agency in Maryland. He had left California to retire to a beautiful family home on Albemarle Sound in North Carolina for a couple of reasons. One was that it had belonged to his mother, so it was essentially free. Two was that it was very close to many friends who had served with the SEALs in their east coast headquarters at Virginia Beach. Today it was very close to the National Security Agency, and “young Ramshawe,” as the admiral referred to him, had dispatched a helicopter right to his front door to deliver him to Fort Meade in person.

When he arrived he was mildly surprised to find the CIA Director Bob Birmingham awaiting him. Also in attendance was Admiral Mark Bradfield,
the ex-Carrier Battle Group Commander who now occupied the Chief of Naval Operation’s chair in the Pentagon. Also sitting in was Rear-Admiral Andy Carlow, Commander, SPECWARCOM, Coronado.

Commander Ramshawe introduced everyone and announced that as far as he was concerned, Admiral Bergstrom was about to have a chat with four of the sanest people in the entire nation. He added the short and slightly mysterious rider that this particular group did not include many judicial figures from Washington’s appeals court system. Everyone chuckled, except Admiral Bergstrom, who had not the slightest idea what Jimmy was talking about. But it took him about twelve seconds to realize that they were discussing the fate of those four Islamic fanatics, which some judge had let loose from Guantanamo Bay.

“Where are they?” he asked

“On an express train in Pakistan heading up to Lahore in the Punjab. And, if we are not gravely mistaken, on to the Swat Valley where al-Qaeda are training their forces to strike at us again.”

“In case any of you had forgotten,” said the admiral, “I actually did retire about fourteen months ago. I also got married to a somewhat dashing Beverly Hills widow, fifteen years my junior, and still elegantly assembled. And I no longer command the finest fighting force this world ever saw.”

Bergstrom had a way about him, and everyone laughed at the ex-SEAL commander’s wry mode of delivery. Finally, Director Ramshawe said, “John, this meeting requires the utmost discretion. But we all believe these characters need to be, er, eliminated. Before they do something shocking.

“Trouble is, they’re not a small group of mass murderers running around while we hunt them down. These cats were officially liberated by the one of the highest judicial authorities in the United States legal system. We cannot go against that. So if anything is to be done, it has to be one of the greatest secrets this country ever had.”

“Otherwise we might all end up in the slammer,” said the admiral, echoing the fears of Ramshawe himself.

“Precisely,” said Birmingham.

“Well, I’m not doing it personally,” said the admiral, without a smile.

“No,” said Jimmy. “We asked you to come here to try and think of someone who might. Someone one hundred percent trustworthy, honor-able, and capable.”

“Any one of my SEALs would fit that,” he said. “But I do see the problem very clearly. Because he cannot be a serving officer, and then act in
total defiance of the laws of the nation, and indeed against the expressed wishes of his commander-in-chief.”

“And there you have it,” said Rear Admiral Carlow. “We simply could not make such a request of any serving U.S. officer to carry out such a mission. If we did and someone was caught, there would be a case for treason, and that still carries the death penalty.”

“Christ, they might execute us all. Nice.” Ramshawe was very obviously baffled.

It was John Bergstrom who marshaled his thoughts quickest. “Look,” he said. “Let’s not make this more complicated than it is. We got four murderers we need to eliminate in the most efficient and secretive way, for the highest possible motive. That’s the safety of our country. And there are plenty of guys out there who would do it for the right money.”

The admiral paused, and asked, “May I assume money is no object?”

“You may,” said Bob Birmingham.

“Okay, I’ll make a few calls. A lot of ex-SEALs are in private security firms, operating all over the world, protecting heads of state. Maybe the best way is to look for a foreign-based outfit.”

“Just so long as they never know who hired them,” ventured Admiral Bradfield.

Rear Admiral Carlow spoke next, very slowly. “Look,” he said, “the guy we want needs to be ex-Special Forces. He also may need some experience in mountain warfare against the Taliban or al-Qaeda—just because he may end up there. He needs to be a top-class marksman, an expert in unarmed combat, proficient with a knife and high explosives. We’re looking for a warrior, right?”

“Close,” said Jimmy. “But he’s also got to be a man of honor. A guy who understands the totally clandestine nature of the mission. A man who is conducting this operation on behalf of the nation—yes, for a big financial reward, but this man needs to be a cut above the rest. He’s actually gotta be a fucking saint!”

Everyone laughed. But the deadly serious edge to the meeting would not go away. Rear Admiral Carlow, the United States Special Forces commander, spoke again. “It’s running through the back of my mind, but a year or two ago, I recommended the court-martial of one of my officers for murder and reckless conduct in the face of the enemy, during which he totally flouted the Geneva Conventions.”

“Sounds perfect,” said Jimmy, sarcastically. “He could probably start World War III, if he concentrated.”

“Actually, I’m not joking. He never was guilty, and he was just about the best officer on the base.”

“Who did he murder?” asked Bob Birmingham.

“A group of a dozen al-Qaeda killers, right there on the banks of the Euphrates River.”

“What for?” asked Jimmy.

“They’d just wiped out twenty of his guys in a missile attack.”

“And he let ’em have it, right?” recalled Admiral Bradfield. “Opened fire while they were trying to surrender. I remember the incident.”

“That’s it,” said Andy Carlow. “He just let ’em have it . . . ”

“The court martial found him not guilty on all charges. I remember that as well,” said Admiral Bradfield.

“That court martial should never have been brought. And I’ll go to my grave regretting my part in it,” replied Carlow. “All the way to my goddamned grave.”

“He got off with an officer’s reprimand,” he added. “But it finished him. He left the Navy immediately. Everyone stood at the gate to say goodbye, I mean the whole base stood at the gate. People were in tears, guys who’d fought with him in the backstreets of Baghdad. I was ashamed of the Navy that day. Ashamed at the injustice of it.

“No one who was there will ever forget it. I mean, watching him walk out to the car. At the last second he turned around and saluted us all. I damn nearly wept.”

“Jesus,” said Jimmy, “Some kind of a man. What was his name?”

“Lieutenant Commander Mackenzie Bedford, SEAL Team 10, Foxtrot Platoon.”

 

IT TOOK DIRECTOR RAMSHAWE’S
researchers approximately fifteen minutes to track down Mack Bedford. He was working in a shipyard in the little town of Dartford on the Kennebec Estuary in Maine. The six-foot-three, former SEAL team leader, now thirty-five, was a native of the town, and his family had known the shipyard owners, the Remsons, for generations.

Harry Remson had given Mack a position commensurate with his high status in the U.S. Navy. He had his own office and secretary right next to Harry. He was Remson’s only salesman, and his task was to acquire orders for warships, guided-missile frigates.

Mack’s territory was the globe, and in his first six months he had landed a major order from the prime minister of an African nation—
a man who was anxious to spend the international food-aid money on the kind of modern weaponry required to conquer the peace-loving but wealthy nation next door.

Mack knew what the smiling Homba Bomba was up to, and he did not especially approve of it, but the Remsons were paying him a comfortable $250,000 a year, and he was duty bound to bring in the orders. This one was worth $500 million, and the Africans had put down a $29 million deposit, non-refundable.

Director Ramshawe had declined to call Mack, preferring instead to travel to Maine, without prior warning, in company with Bobby Birmingham and Rear Admiral Andy Carlow, Mack Bedford’s old boss. All three men arrived in a marine helicopter at around 10:30 a.m. the following morning.

They circled the snowy landscape above the little town on the river around thirty miles northeast of Portland, then landed in a windswept, frost-covered field right opposite Mack’s white clapboard home, where he lived with his strikingly beautiful wife, Anne, and their son Tommy.

Anne stepped out onto the porch wearing a heavy-duty sheepskin coat, and waved to them. The helicopter contained only one word on its fuselage,
NAVY,
and after twelve years of marriage to the former lieutenant commander, she guessed there could only be one man in this town such an aircraft might be coming to visit.

Rear Admiral Andy Carlow, in full Naval uniform, climbed out before the rotors had stopped spinning, and he waved reassuringly at Anne Bedford, whom he had known briefly while Mack and his family lived in Coronado. Ramshawe and Birmingham disembarked next and walked the short distance across the field to the house where Andy introduced everyone.

Not many days went by when Andy did not find himself wondering about Mack Bedford. And that applied to a number of senior officers who cursed the day they had agreed to find him guilty of something even so minor as an officer’s reprimand—anything to placate the politicians and their goddamned useless peace talks.

The officer in charge of the court martial was haunted by that infamous day, and, even now, Andy Carlow remembered that final moment when Mack had turned around and saluted, plunging a dagger of remorse, regret, and sorrow into the hearts of them all. There were a thousand guilty men at the gateway on that day, and not one of them was Mack Bedford.

The question hung in the air for months. Why had someone not run forward and stopped it? Why not Carlow? Why not the goddamned president of the United States? Why not indeed?

“How’s he been?” asked Carlow.

“Not too bad, Andy,” replied Anne. “Considering everything. We’re okay. Do you want to see him?”

“May we?”

“Sure, I’ll call him. He can be here in five minutes. Come on in, I’ll make some coffee.”

She still was very beautiful, Andy thought, and the consummate officer’s wife. Calm, assured, and confident.

Inside the house, the big room was heavily beamed across the ceiling, with broad, polished, wooden floorboards, colorful rugs, and a log fire. The furniture was Americana but comfortable. Andy noticed the newest U.S. Navy magazine,
Proceedings,
on a side table.

Within minutes they heard a car come sweeping into the drive, and shortly thereafter, Mack Bedford came through the front door. He’d shaved his beard now, but Andy would have recognized him anywhere. The big ex-SEAL commander entered the room and exclaimed, “Andy Carlow, hello. Welcome to the great state of Maine.”

The two old buddies, who had once roamed the rubble-crushed streets of north Baghdad together, now embraced, slapping each other on the shoulders; remembering things said during Mack’s final days, and things that could never be said.

Andy introduced his traveling companions, head of the CIA, head of the National Security Agency.

“What happened?” joshed Mack. “Chairman of the Joint Chiefs busy?”