Direct Action

7

Everyone seemed to be waiting for him to say something, so Murdock decided to take the bull by the horns. “I appreciate your confidence in my platoon,” he said. “But I think first of all I need to know just exactly what you want me to do.”

“Fair enough,” said Stroh. “That warehouse has to be completely destroyed. The presses, the chemicals, whatever stockpiles of paper and finished bills are there. And the plates for the Supernotes. The plates absolutely have to be destroyed.”

“Then it seems to me,” said Murdock, “that the easiest way to go about that would be with one or two F117 Stealth fighters and several laser-guided bombs.”

“That would be our first choice also,” said Stroh. “But with every country in the Middle East currently engaged in peace talks, the U.S. can’t precipitate an act of war with Syria. The Syrians know that perfectly well, of course, and have been using it to get away with murder for years. It’s also why we have to hit them right now, because once they sign a peace treaty they’ll be untouchable. And for all those reasons, the guidance we’ve received for this mission requires that it be entirely covert.”

Murdock was well used to such typical governmental hypocrisy. When the Israelis had dumped the intelligence about the terrorist cell in Port Sudan into the CIA’s lap, the Agency had had trouble deciding what to do.

There were no photos of the terrorists, just physical descriptions, and if the terrorists got out of the Sudan they could change identities and modes of transport a dozen times, and it would be only too easy for the intelligence community to lose track of them.

The solution was clear, but the sticking point was Executive Order 12333, signed by President Ronald Reagan on December 4th, 1981. It stated, “No person employed by or acting on behalf of the U.S. government shall engage in, or conspire to engage in, assassination.”

As an example of classic American naivete, the executive order was unsurpassed. The assumption was that it was better to launch multimillion dollar air strikes against Libya, dropping thousands of tons of bombs and killing perhaps hundreds of innocent people, than it was to blow Colonel Khadaffi’s head off his shoulders with one well-aimed round. The invasion of Panama and the post-Gulf War Tomahawk missile strikes against Iraq were further examples of the order’s consequences.

The bottom line was that, like any good bureaucracy, the CIA kicked the problem upstairs. In this case to the White House. Violation of the law was grounds for impeachment. However, bombs going off in Europe during the election year of an incumbent American Government that could have done something to prevent it was something that struck right to the heart of politics itself.

The solution was also typically American: call in the lawyers. They drafted a tortuously reasoned finding that required Blake Murdock and 3rd Platoon, SEAL Team Seven, to “attempt” to “apprehend” the terrorists.

Surrounded by embarrassed CIA officers who did everything but wink and nudge him with their elbows to let him know what was expected, Murdock had merely shook his head in disgust and signed the required five copies of the form acknowledging that he understood the orders and took complete responsibility for carrying them out. But later, in private, he’d broken it down this way for his platoon: “We’re going in to kill the motherfuckers.” And that was exactly what they had done.

So, since they couldn’t go to war with Syria even though they were going to war with Syria, all Murdock could say was, “I understand.” Then he took a deep breath. “But I’m concerned that this mission seems to be outside NAVSPECWAR’s parameters for SEAL operations.”

First developed during the Gulf War, the criteria for the employment of SEALs had proven very effective. They included:

1. A high probability of mission success.

2. Operations in a maritime environment or within one day’s patrol of the water.

3. Missions which required no more than a full platoon to undertake successfully.

4. Taskings which assured high survivability of the operators involved.

Murdock had been referring to criteria number two, though what he really had in mind was number four. These people seemed to be asking a SEAL platoon to bite off a lot more than it could chew.

“According to USSOCOM protocol this would normally fall under the heading of a Delta Force mission,” said Stroh. “However, we would like to keep the number of people with knowledge of the operation as small as possible. You were already acquainted with the details and the money through the Port Sudan operation, and frankly, in view of its success, we wanted you to take this on. Admiral Raymond concurs with US.”

If the admiral was going to put his chop on it, Murdock knew that avenue was closed. “I don’t have any other immediate concerns,” he said, leaving himself a little room. “I’ll start my planning immediately. Will I be working with you and Paul Kohler again?”

“We don’t want to mess with success,” Stroh said with a smile.

Then Gene Berlinger, the CIA Director of Special Operations, spoke his first words of the afternoon. “We have already assembled an operational plan for Lieutenant Murdock’s platoon.”

Probably something the CIA paramilitary guys had put together, Murdock thought. Some of them were former SEALS, but even so, they weren’t out operating every day the way he and 3rd Platoon were. “I’ll be glad to take a look at it, sir,” Murdock replied. “But I would only be comfortable executing my own plan.”

“Your comfort, Lieutenant, is not a consideration in the execution of this mission.”

So now the games had begun. Murdock had had some experience with this sort of thing. Special Operations command staff officers, generally Army types, thought you should sit in the corner sucking your thumb while they put together a plan worthy of Alexander the Great. Then they’d pat you on the ass, send you out to execute, and blame you when it fucked up.

Blake Murdock had been required to jump through his ass due to inadequate planning too many times in his career. He wasn’t afraid of assholes in suits. He was a little afraid of a career-ending fitness report, because he really liked being a SEAL. But he was absolutely terrified of getting his whole platoon wiped out.

“With respect, Sir,” said Murdock. “If I’m the one who’s going into Lebanon, it’ll have to be to execute my plan. Not the plan of anyone who isn’t coming along. If that doesn’t fit in with your plans, then you need to find someone else.”

“You seem so reluctant,” said Berlinger. “Perhaps we should.”

Whitbread of Covert Action Staff, a separate department in the CIA, seemed amused by the whole scene. Commander Masciarelli looked utterly horrified. Commodore Harkins sat impassively, waiting to see which side of the net the ball would land on. But Admiral Raymond had a “that’s my boy” expression on his face.

“I want him to be cautious,” Admiral Raymond growled. “Especially with this mission. I don’t want someone who’s just going to buckle up his chin strap and go out and get a bunch of my SEALs killed. Lieutenant Murdock is absolutely right. He’s more than proved that he can both plan and operate. And he’s not going anywhere near Lebanon until he tells me he can get the job done. Since we’ve already decided that he will do the mission …” At this the admiral paused, and when no one in the room contradicted him, he went on. “Before anyone gets bent out of shape, let’s allow him to put together a plan and brief it back to us.”

No one objected to that, especially since the admiral, and by implication Murdock, had now assumed full responsibility for the operation. Everyone else’s ass was fully covered.

“Blake,” the admiral ordered, “get to work. Don Stroh will give you whatever you need to get started.”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” said Murdock. “All I need right now is permission to bring my second in command and platoon chiefs in on this. And also the Team Command Master Chief.”

“That’s unacceptable,” said Berlinger.

“Not counting staff jobs and a tour I did at BUD/S, I have about five years of Special Operations experience in the field,” said Murdock. “My two chiefs have a combined total of thirty-one. The Master Chief has nearly that much himself.”

That had always been Murdock’s gripe. The chiefs were what made the teams, and compared to their experience officers were just a bunch of amateurs. Yet officers always thought they knew best.

Now Whitbread, the director of Covert Action staff, spoke his first word. “Granted.”

The meeting broke up, and the admiral brought Murdock over to a quiet corner. “What do you really think about this, Blake?” he asked.

Sometimes when the brass did that, they were really asking you to tell them what they wanted to hear. But this wasn’t one of those situations.

“I’ll tell you the truth, sir. I don’t have a good feeling about it. I know what I can do. I can go in and take out the key players if someone can target them for me. I may be able to blow the warehouse. But as far as guaranteeing what’s going to be destroyed in it, you know I can’t do that. At this stage of the game I don’t even know if I can get all the way in to the target, do the job, and then get out.”

“I hear what you’re saying,” the admiral replied, obviously hearkening back to his days in Vietnam. “If you had a couple of fighter squadrons putting close air behind you as you exfiltrated Baalbek, that would be one thing. But you won’t have that, or fire support of any kind.”

“Sir, if it can be done, I’ll do it. I just don’t know if it can be done without either an F117 or an entire Ranger battalion.”

“Blake, this is a hairy one, but it has to be done. And for a lot of reasons, we have to do it. And we can’t fail. You do it your way, and if anyone screws with you or tries to force you into anything, I want you to sit right down on your ass and not move until you get on a secure phone with me. That’s an order, you understand?”

Now Murdock really felt like killing someone for the man. “Yes, sir.”