Triangle of Terror Read online

  In fact, it did trouble him, but he wasn’t about to let Griswald know that. “Again, please choose your words with more caution,” Durham said in warning.

  Griswald snorted. “If they knew, I figure we’d be staring down the whole of the Secret Service by now.”

  Durham heaved a breath. The man needed to gird his loins, show some courage. Yes, there were problems to solve, but only in the short term. The Braden situation, for one, was baffling all by its lonesome, what with some one-man firestorm none of them could get any intelligence on razing the Camp Triangle compound. Word was sure to reach the President any moment. Or was there some other demon, lurking in the shadows behind the scenes? Was the President jealously guarding his own knowledge of the disaster in Brazil? Waiting to spring it on them? If forced to confront the situation, he would hand Braden’s head to the President. His file on the man sat on his desk, ready to deliver. He would come clean about the missing WMD, a stall tactic, to be sure, until the special delivery was made to his room at the Embassy Suites.

  “I almost envy Rubin,” Griswald muttered into his tie.

  “What was that?”

  “Rubin. I said—”

  “I heard you, I just wanted you to say it in a voice becoming of a man and not a mouse. Hear me but good, Griswald. His task is of no small importance,” Durham growled. “As for what you wish, keep in mind that he is prepared to sacrifice his life. Are you?”

  Griswald scowled, eyes flaring.

  Good, Durham thought, anger was good.

  “If I weren’t, I would have walked a long time ago.”

  That’s better, Durham thought, proud of himself to be pushing all the right buttons, and said, “Then it’s settled.”

  “What is?”

  “Your cold feet. Don’t bring them to the big show.”

  “What about security?”

  Durham chuckled. “We are security. I don’t care how you think you read the President’s dark mood. Understand something, my friend. The President created us. We are already, for the most part, albeit secretly, the administration. He doesn’t want the public, the press, not even those assholes in the Senate and Congress to be aware we exist. We’re just rising to the next highest level.”

  “And when, precisely, is our ascent to the next level going to happen?”

  “That I can’t be positive of. The special delivery is en route, that’s all I can say. I cannot make our courier move any faster without a lapse in both judgment and security.”

  “Say our hand is forced—”

  “Then I am prepared to act on the spot.”

  Durham saw Griswald was ready to pursue more anxieties, when the phone rang. He was grateful for the interruption, blood pressure pulsing in his ears, and nearly snatched up the receiver. It was the chief of staff. The President wanted to see them in the Oval Office right away. The ass-kissing toad was pissing in his ear, implying SCTF had better damn well have something for the President on who was behind the executions in Jordan, like they swore they’d have by the end of day’s business.

  “Who was that?” Griswald asked as Durham slammed down the receiver.

  Durham smiled, suddenly enjoyed watching his partner-in-treason squirm. “The chief of staff.”

  “And?”

  Durham leaned back in his chair, smile holding as he envisioned one moment of the coming glory. “And, I was just thinking…”

  “What?”

  “That the self-righteous brown-nosed prick might be the first one I shoot.”

  24

  General Osman Ataturk sometimes had to inform the paltry few historically knowledgeable foreigners he was no relation to the hero of the War of Independence and founder of modern secular Turkish democracy. Much like the CIA assassin named Locklin and the Special Forces Major Hawke standing before him in his tent, the culturally aware often seemed disappointed when he informed as much, as if no blood link made him less of a leader of fighting men.

  They could kindly kiss his hairy Turk ass, he thought.

  In the case of ignorant foreigners who didn’t know or care about the truth—Kurd garbage looking to undermine the State through terrorism—whatever they thought they believed of him was furthest from the truth. He was no political stooge. He was no intermediary bagman, out here to glad-hand for office. His hands had personally shed so much blood in the Kurd-controlled southeast area of Turkey, he was known as Ataturk the Terrible. The American intelligence operatives, he was fairly certain, knew who he really was.

  If they did, the Americans didn’t appear impressed by his fearsome reputation.

  Almost a day and a half since setting up camp at the base of the southern foothills of Mount Ararat, and he was forced to wait on Colonel Braden and his militant pack of prisoners, one of whom, allegedly, knew precisely where the WMD was stockpiled in the mountains. Naturally, he had his own contacts, informants, between Kurd, Iraqi and former intelligence operatives of the Turkish MIT. Some of them were no longer among the living, once their tongues flapped enough about the truth of the WMD. Some were still on the loose, gathering intelligence, swearing to report back, but mostly in hopes of clipping a few more dollars from his numbered Kuwaiti account, as they were on his payroll. The WMD, he believed, had been choppered at some point roughly two thousand feet up the southern slopes. His inside man was reluctant to give him the exact location, details on the number and type of shells, but he was presently watching the store. In truth, it had been the Huey gunship loaner from one of his many airfields that had assisted in delivering the cargo for the Iraqi criminals. The problem on his informant’s end—or so stated during near two months’ delay—was money, since, his source informed him, the Iraqis were haggling over price, waiting on their contacts inside Turkey to show up with duffel bags full of cash.

  The bartering was about to end.

  Feeling the scowl again twisting his face, Ataturk looked at his American counterparts. He had been watching Locklin and Hawke consume his tea and smoke his cigarettes for hours on end, poring over both CIA and Turkish MIT satellite imagery and aerial recon photos of the foothills, slopes, gorges and glaciers. Thick cloud cover hindered clear and accurate surveillance photos, making Ataturk wonder just what the two Americans could be searching for. Weather, of course, was a major concern, as far as a quick chopper ride up the side of the mountain. There was wind shear. There was freezing cold. There was heavy cloud cover, which would render visibility next to zero. They grumbled each time he mentioned these problems. They sniffed the air, blew smoke his way. They glanced at him with thinly veiled contempt while helping themselves to another cup of tea or cigarette.

  They, of course, had all the answers.

  The trouble was, he needed them to get that WMD, but the waiting was fraying his last nerve, while stirring a bubbling caldron of anger in his belly. Against his better judgment, he was in constant contact with one of his Black Hawk crews, having ordered them to recon the gorge he believed led the way to where the Iraqis and their Turk allies—one of whom was his eyes and ears—were sitting on the WMD. Visibility was decent, up to fifteen hundred feet, then the cloud cover became so thick a man could walk on it, or so his crew informed him.

  As the Americans muttered to themselves, Ataturk fielded another call from his Black Hawk crew. He heard how they had spotted the Kurds he had been hunting for months—with little more to show for his effort than a few bloody skirmishes—before they vanished into the mountains like ghosts. Presently, they were climbing up the mountain, clearing the thousand-foot line, reaching higher.

  They knew something he did not.

  Ataturk handed the receiver to his radioman and turned to the Americans. “Gentlemen, I have confirmation of Kurd rebels in the area.”

  “Yeah?” Locklin said. “So?”

  He walked up to the maps and imagery spread over the large metal table and stabbed the area above the southern gorge leading in. “They are moving. Here.”

  “Again, so what?” Locklin was sneering.


  “They, I believe, are after the same ordnance we are, if my source is correct. I have been hunting for them for some time, but these mountain Turks have proved elusive. They killed some of my soldiers. Vengeance, as you might know, is a time-honored tradition in Turkey.”

  “Okay, and?”

  Ataturk kept his anger in check. “I believe it wise to go ahead and begin our own search at this time without further delay. But understand, I intend to engage these rebels along the way.”

  Locklin checked his watch. “Our man has landed in-country, General. They’ve already transferred to a Black Hawk. We go when he gets here with our Iraqi guide, and not a minute before. And, understand this—you grease some salve on your Kurd hemorrhoid on your own time.”

  “I do not expect they will let that happen, as you so eloquently put it. Also, I have been informed by my source at Incirlik that a large American special ops force is en route, likewise believed to be going after the ordnance.”

  He saw that finally got their attention, their smug looks turning dark with anger, as Hawke growled, “And you chose to only tell us this now, why?”

  He was about to tell them it was because they were too busy taking advantage of his hospitality and good nature when Locklin grabbed his radio as it crackled with an unfamiliar voice.

  “They’re here,” the CIA assassin announced, grabbing up his HK 33.

  Ataturk wheeled and followed the Americans outside. He watched as the Black Hawk dropped down, settled in its rotor wash by his own gunships, one of which included an Apache he intended to take into battle. The Americans could squawk all they wanted, but every Kurd clan he wiped out was one less murdering band of criminal and terrorist rabble to worry about in the future. Shrugging the heavy wool topcoat higher up on to his shoulders, he clapped his hands at a soldier, who tossed him one of the new American M-16/M-203 combos, feeling a flush of pride as he smoothly caught the assault rifle.

  Battle time.

  Despite the reluctance or indifference of the Americans, Ataturk intended to blow the Kurds off the face of the mountain. One well-placed Hellfire missile should do it. If he didn’t, he knew they would draw first blood, but the arrogant Americans didn’t seem to understand that. Yes, he knew, it was Locklin who had first approached him long ago with the offer to find, seize and divide the WMD among themselves. Yes, the assassin was a walking directory of invaluable and critical military and intelligence contacts in his country, and had apparently ingratiated himself to key politicians and intelligence operatives with his knowledge of ongoing terrorist operations in Turkey. But he wasn’t any more important, Ataturk decided, beyond getting him what was up the mountain. As often happened when there was a shooting war, friendlies had a way of getting caught in the line of fire. He had been considering how to get rid of the Americans once they helped him capture the WMD, but now there were more special ops on the way.

  A conspiracy within a riddle enclosed by an adder’s nest was at work, he thought. The mountain was about to become overcrowded. He only hoped it was littered with the right bodies. It was his country, his province, after all, and that WMD should rightfully fall into his hands.

  Head bent, Ataturk trailed Locklin and Hawke into the rotor wash. It was easy enough to see who were commandos of Task Force Talon. They wore black hoods, matching berets with their screaming hawk insignia, carried HK submachine guns, Beretta side arms and had webbing heavy with spare clips and grenades. He counted five black hoods crammed near the doorway, then one of the commandos bounded out of the fuselage, a man in an orange jumpsuit in tow.

  “Mr. Locklin and Major Hawke.”

  “Good of you to make the party, Colonel Braden,” Locklin said. “Things are heating up and the good general here wants to get moving.”

  “I concur. We’re losing daylight.”

  “And we may have company up our six.”

  “Do tell.”

  “When we’re in the air.”

  Ataturk was beginning to feel like a third wheel, as Braden flashed the whites of his eyes in a look he read as still more contempt.

  “This is Nahab,” Braden told them. “Claims he’s personally been to the stash site.”

  “It is no claim,” the prisoner, said, shivering in his jumpsuit, stamping his feet.

  “We’ll see,” Locklin said. “You ride with us.”

  “And my deal?” Nahab asked.

  Ataturk started, wondering what Braden had promised the terrorist. “What deal?” he questioned.

  “Get your convoy moving into the gorge, General,” Locklin snapped. “I want that Apache out front of us the whole way in and up! And that crew follows my every order!”

  “What deal?” he barked at Braden.

  “Goddammit, we don’t have time for this crap!” Locklin shouted as he led Nahab away by the arm, marching toward his Black Hawk, the rotors spinning, hurling more grit and dust over Ataturk.

  Cursing, Ataturk spun on his soldiers, barking for the convoy and his gunships to move out. The Americans, he suspected, were playing games, looking to cut him out of the load. And now, with what he suspected was an American or joint Special Forces ops of perhaps his own countrymen on the way…

  What did the Americans say? he thought. First come, first served, that was it.

  Or in this case, first blood first served.

  “THEY’RE COMING! Go, go, go!”

  Faisal Mohammed, snapping up his AK-47, kept screaming at his men for greater speed. He found several of his fighters appearing none to eager to move away from the warmth of the fire barrels. He stood his ground in the great bowl-shaped depression, letting his eyes fill with what he had up to then considered a stroke of genius.

  Was this a moment of coming triumph, or doom?

  It had taken endless and arduous months to transport the cargo safely across the borders of Syria, Iran and his own country of birth. Well in advance of when the infidels began bombing Baghdad—and even into the months of occupation by the Great Satan—the top-ranking intelligence officer in charge of weapons production had personally been granted the honor by the former President to smuggle the cargo out of Iraq. He’d been blessed with suitcases stuffed with American currency in hundred-dollar bills to pave the way into Turkey, buy the necessary contacts, assure safe haven. He tended to believe it was more luck, guile and preying on the greed of the Turks. That they had transferred, however, nearly all of what wasn’t buried in the deserts outside Baghdad and arrived safely meant Allah had great plans of glory and retribution in store for the Iraqi people.

  He stared at the future, determined to save it.

  Finding the cave, massive and deep, had been something of a miracle all by itself. It was bitterly cold this high up, but the depth and width of the cave provided them with room to spare to house the cargo. By truck, by mule and horse, whatever it took, and then the Huey gunship had finally delivered the cargo here. The helicopter was parked on the glacier and covered by black tarp. Each piece, every crate had been moved in here by hand. Hundreds of shells, he observed, ranging in various sizes, stood, held together by thick wire. There were crates, piled three and four high, storing the smaller artillery shells and warheads that were custom-made to be fitted to a rocket launcher. There were missiles with stabilizing fins that could be mounted on gunship rocket pods. There were surface-to-surface missiles with a range of up to five hundred kilometers. And then there were the canisters, the next step up, he knew, to martyrdom by jihad bombing. He watched, torn between pride and fear, as three of his men wrapped the vests around their torsos, the canisters already wired, primed to blow with the touch of a button.

  They knew what to do when the enemy landed on the glacier.

  They had smuggled a little over five thousand pieces. Most of it was VX nerve gas, but there was a smattering of anthrax, botulin, small pox. Enough, he knew, to spread the fear through the infidel occupation force, drive them from his country. The question now remained, would he get the chance?

 
He looked at his radioman who was in constant contact with their spotter, hidden below on a precipice near the top of the gorge. “How many?” he demanded.

  Khalik looked aghast, as he answered, “A convoy is now entering the gorge. Eleven vehicles, most of them troop transports. Three Black Hawks and one Apache.”

  Battalion strength, then, he assumed, as Khalik guessed at the number of soldiers.

  And there were the Kurds, he knew, nearly thirty-strong, scaling whatever tortuous pathways they could find leading up from the gorge.

  War was coming to the mountain.

  That the Turk military had not made a move before now surprised him, but he had his suspicions why they held back, waiting until this time to make their encroachment. He watched, as Colonel Mahmudah Dagul and his four-man contingent of former Turk intelligence officers descended the short sloping path into the bowl.

  “If you intend a suicide stand, after all the sweat and anxiety I went through to secure you and the cargo here, I urge you allow me to attempt Plan B first.”

  And there, he believed, was the truth behind the sudden coming of Turk soldiers. The Turks had surely schemed this moment. Dagul had vowed to deliver money for a sizeable haul of the cargo. That no cash had yet been put in his hands suggested the ex-MIT operatives had duped him.

  They wanted the mother lode all for themselves.

  “Colonel Dagul, was it not you who told me to trust no one outside of us?”

  “That was before what I fear is a full-scale attack by a man I know will bring the mountain down on our heads.”

  Mohammed watched as the Turks fanned out, his AK-47 ready to begin spraying them should their American M-16s lift an inch his direction. “Your man, Colonel.”